


Evergreen

by Tgonthefiery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Care of Magical Creatures, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Herbology, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read, Runes, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25182334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tgonthefiery/pseuds/Tgonthefiery
Summary: Hydrangea always knew that something was wrong with her since the beginning. She'd thought that she could escape the wrongness that enveloped her, hampering her every day. But magic never leaves willingly, and before long, the wrongness is no longer wrong. It is her life, her world, her family... and her greatest fear, which refuses to be buried.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	1. Prologue - One Cold Night

The windscreen had fogged up since she and Vernon had left it parked in front of the restaurant. The windows on the sides, too, were covered in a layer of frost so thin that she could trace a line through it and watch as it froze up again. It was cold tonight, at least for Surrey, and the state of the car wasn’t the only thing indicating that. She felt it as she pulled open the door, sat down in the leather seat as her body kept shivering. Vernon plopped down in the driver’s seat, and she let out a sigh of relief as he turned the key and the heaters came on.

“It wasn’t this cold before,” he said. “Was it, Dear?”

Petunia shook her head.

No, it hadn’t been.

“It isn’t usually like this, this time of year,” she said. “Did the forecast say anything?”

“About the cold? No, not at all.” Vernon slowly worked the car onto the road, narrowly avoiding the car behind. “Tonight, it was supposed to be slightly chilly. Nothing else that I remember.”

“Oh well.” Petunia pushed herself up so that she was sitting up straight. “How do you think Dudley’s doing?”

“He’s fine, I’m sure.” Vernon directed the car to turn left, passing under the green glare of a traffic light. “Mrs. Figg probably has him playing with her cats, or whatever those monstrosities are supposed to be.”

“Perhaps calling them monstrosities is a bit far, Vernon.”

“With those ears of theirs?”

“They’re odd. Odd creatures, but not monstrosities.” Petunia heard Vernon mutter something under his breath but didn’t quite catch it.

No matter. Never anything serious, those whisperings.

Vernon was a good man, and he’d been good to her, she’d been good to him – they’d been good to each other, good _for_ each other. She remembered the day he’d proposed to her, and only recalled the smiles and well wishes. The blessing from her mother. The approval. Vernon had gotten down on one knee, and she’d said yes before he’d opened the box.

And she was happy with Vernon. She didn’t regret her decision, not in the slightest. She had a husband who, no matter how much time he spent sitting on his ass in front of the couch, loved her, accepted, understood her. She loved him back, and he had given her a beautiful son who they would pick up from Mrs. Figg’s, and then they would be back home, warm and snug and protected from the cold, cold night.

And it _was_ getting colder. Petunia could see the creeping fingers of frost framing the window. She rubbed her winger against them and came away with nothing. They were on the other side.

Suddenly the car jerked to a holt, and Petunia wheezed as the seatbelt pulled her back against the chair, the air going out of her lungs. Vernon was cursing beside her, but she didn’t dare to look at him. There was another car, its bumper frighteningly close to theirs.

_God, god, god._

_I might have almost died._

Her hand found Vernon’s, and she squeezed tightly. His thumb caressed her palm, as she watched the driver of the other car stare at them in shock.

“Are you alright, Dear?” she heard Vernon ask. She nodded stiffly, before realizing that he wasn’t looking at her.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’m alright. Just a shock.” She pressed her hand flat against her chest, felt the line where the seatbelt had pressed into her dress. She traced the line running diagonally across her body.

“Blubbering idiot,” Vernon spat. Petunia squeezed tighter.

The other driver – he must have been no older than his mid-twenties – silently backed up his car, before driving around them. Vernon put his foot on the pedal, and they resumed their drive in silence.

“Are you sure,” he asked. He sounded worried. “You look pale.”

“As do you,” she said. She hadn’t looked at him.

Vernon chuckled.

“Must be the cold, then.”

_No, Vernon. The cold turns you red._

Petunia caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hovering between them. She could barely tell the difference between her skin and the whites of her eyes.

_This isn’t right._

She released Vernon’s hand, intertwining her fingers together.

_This isn’t right at all._

She looked over to the window on her left. The fingers of frost were still there, lengthening into spindly claws as they crept over the glass. She rubbed her finger over it, and this time she came away with moisture on her finger. She looked over to Vernon, but he had his eyes on the road. Best not to distract him right now.

Petunia had seen things like this before. Petals which flew from a person’s hand, leaves transforming into dragonflies. Once upon a time, she had longed for that world.

Now she wanted nothing to do with it.

Vernon turned the car, and Petunia saw the familiar buildings and trees, the sequence of fences that so perfectly encapsulated Privet Drive. Vernon pulled over coming to halt next to a small patch of greenery. Petunia got out of the car, brushing off the hem of her dress before closing the door. A blast of cold air hit her as she heard the trees rustle quietly. Vernon stayed in the car, staring aimlessly ahead. She walked to the gate of the house, reaching over to slide the lock and swing open the door.

Mrs. Arabella Figg’s garden was probably the nicest garden Petunia had ever seen. It was certainly far better than hers, although her job kept her away from maintaining it most of the time. Mrs. Figg, however, had almost nothing _else_ to do, apart from look after her many cats. And gosh, were there a lot of cats.

Petunia walked over smooth grey steppingstones, their edges shining softly in the moonlight. She extended her hand, so her fingers brushed the petals of the roses growing in their beautiful vases, arranges in a tight ‘V shape’ before cutting off as she reached the stairs. Ivy hung over the deck, so low that she had to duck to pass under.

Petunia raised her hand to knock at the door, jumping as the lock clicked and the door swung open. Mrs. Figg stood in the doorway; her face was lit by an orange glow from the dim lights behind her. She was wearing a new gown – this one had a floral pattern with splashes of greens and blues. It fit her well.

“Good evening Mrs. Figg,” Petunia said, giving the best smile she could muster as she shivered from the cold.

“Mrs. Dursley. Always lovely to see you.” Mrs. Figg smiled pleasantly, opening up the fly door and motioning with her hand. “Please, come in.”

“I hope that Dudley hasn’t been too much trouble,” she said. She left her shoes by the door, closing it behind her.

“No, not at all.” Mrs. Figg waved her off, leading Petunia through a hallway filled with various framed pictures, hanging on nails embedded into the walls. Cats, mostly. Playing in the grass, lying on the couch… Mrs. Figg liked her cats.

“You son is always a delight to have over,” Mrs. Figg told her as they entered the kitchen. Something was cooking on the stove, a blue furred cat with long, pointed ears sitting next to it. Petunia widened her eyes at the sight of the strange cat, but Mrs. Figg was already picking it up and carrying it away.

“Oh, dear. Missy, you can’t go close to the fires,” she scolded. The cat let out a sad meow as she placed it back on the tiled floor, trotting off to where a whole group of them were milling about a large armchair.

“Mrs. Figg?”

“Yes, Mrs. Dursley?”

“Could I ask… what kind of cat is that?” Mrs. Figg flicked her head back towards the blue cat, then back to Petunia.

“Oh, a rare breed, from… India.”

“India.” Petunia looked to the wall, and saw a painting hanging there. Two black kittens, sleeping together in a basket. She’d painted it herself, when she was younger, gifted it to Mrs. Figg as a birthday present when she’d had nothing else to give her. She hadn’t painted for years now.

“Yes, yes. India. A… a dear friend from there is visiting, I’m just looking after her while he goes around. Tourism, you see.”

Petunia looked back at the blue-furred cat. The mane of white fur around its neck, the long, feathery tuft at the end of its sleek tail.

“I see,” she said. She felt herself shiver, and this time it wasn’t because of the cold. “India.”

Mrs. Figg smiled at her, then tiptoed through a sea of cats, tails brushing against her feet before she reached Dudley as he petted a white kitten.

“Dudley, dear. Mummy’s here.” Dudley looked up at Mrs. Figg, and Petunia felt herself smile.

“Hi, baby,” she said. The boy didn’t struggle as Mrs. Figg picked him up, instead twisting around so that he was facing Petunia.

“Huh?”

“Mm, mm.” Petunia took him from Mrs. Figg’s arms, wobbling a little as a cat brushed past her leg. “Have you been good?”

“Huh!”

“Of course, you have.” She kissed his forehead, before continuing to slowly rock him as she hugged him to her chest. “Thank you so much for looking after him for me, Mrs. Figg.”

“Oh, it was no trouble, dear.” Mrs. Figg patted her arm. “You deserved a night off, after all.” Petunia smiled earnestly as she slowly walked out of the kitchen, Mrs. Figg following behind.

“Things are looking up right now,” she said. “So there’s a chance we might not be calling you as much, after this.”

“Oh, but you know I wouldn’t mind looking after Dudley if you needed some time for yourself.”

“I know. Just… I’m sure you’re busy looking after all your… charges.”

“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Figg chuckled. “They can be a handful, but so can looking after children. You know where to find me if you need some time off.”

“Of course,” Petunia said. She pushed the door open with her shoulder, slipping her feet into her shoes. “Good night, Mrs. Figg.” She walked out, then paused and turned around. She felt the cold air encroaching around her, and Dudley shook in her arms. Mrs. Figg was staring at her, her lip trembling.

“I…” She reached out, grasping Petunia’s arm. “Stay safe, Petunia,” she said. Petunia shifted her arms so that Dudley rested against her shoulder, then took Mrs. Figg’s hand.

“I will,” she said. She looked at her hand, then Mrs. Figg, and for a split second she felt a wave of discomfort crash over her as she took in Mrs. Figg’s expression. Grim, taut, serious. Mrs. Figg sighed, releasing Petunia’s hand and stepping inside. Petunia watched as the door swung shut behind her. She cradled Dudley in her arms, listening to the soothing sound of his breath.

Mrs. Figg had never acted like that. And Petunia had known Mrs. Figg for quite a while.

When she walked back through the garden, the air felt different. The bright colors, so brilliantly visible in the moonlight, were now angry, biting and clashing. Between the blades of grass were blinking eyeballs, tracking her movements as she hurried along, Dudley bouncing in her arms. And… She shivered as she felt the wave of cold air pass over her. Yes. It _was_ colder than before. Petunia fiddled with the gate, locking it behind her before hurriedly throwing open the door and sliding into her seat. Vernon stared at her, eyes scanning her up and down.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly. Petunia looked at him, then at Dudley, then shook her head. She could see the reaching fingers at her window, meeting at the center and forming some misshapen polygon.

“Can we…” She took a deep breath. “Can we just go home?”

She didn’t look at Vernon, but surely enough, she felt and heard the shudder of the engine. Dudley was looking up at her, eyes blinking. She smiled, stroking his cheek.

“What happened, Petunia?” she heard Vernon say. “Did Mrs. Figg–”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “I just feel weird.”

“Okay,” he said. She looked down at Dudley, stroking his chin. She remembered how she’d felt when she’d first seen him. He’d been covered in blood, he’d been crying, but she’d felt… worry. Confusion. These things were supposed to be magical moments. Perhaps that had been the problem. It had been as mundane as anything else.

“We’re home now.” Petunia looked up, and saw the familiar driveway, the front lawn lined with various flowers. She breathed in, out, in, out.

“Great,” she said. She opened the door, Dudley clutched to her chest, closing it just as Vernon managed to push himself out. She smiled as he staggered over the cement, grumbling to himself as he slammed the door shut.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.” He tossed the keys in his hand. “Come on, let’s head inside. It’s freezing out here.” As if answering his statement, the howl of the wind raised in volume. “Yes, let’s go inside.” Petunia followed Vernon inside, sighing in relief as she felt the biting cold begin to ease away. She felt Dudley nuzzle into her shoulder.

“I’m going to put Dudley to bed,” she told Vernon. He nodded as he stopped underneath the stairs to get into the cupboard, tossing in one of Dudley’s one-year-old toys that had been lying about. The floorboards needed another mop, Petunia noted, but that could wait until tomorrow. She walked with Dudley past the living room as Vernon headed over to start up the fire, up the creaky but firm wooden stairs. With each step there was a groan, a slight dip as the wood bent inwards. When she reached the top, two feet on steady ground, she pushed open the door into her and Vernon’s room.

The bed was already made – that must have been Vernon, because _she’d_ been in a huge rush this morning – and Dudley’s cot was just a little to the left of theirs. Her side of the bed. Little ornaments, stuffed animals and baubles, hung over Dudley’s bed, still spinning around on their cords.

“Come here,” she muttered as she set Dudley down. Trying to get him changed had always been hard when he’d struggled and squirmed, but tonight he didn’t protest much at all. She managed to get Dudley into his pajamas within a few minutes. For Petunia, that was probably a new record.

“Okay.” She left Dudley in the cot, his head laid against the pillow, as she headed downstairs. The lights were already on, she noted. Had Vernon–

The lights flashed green. Petunia froze on the stairs her hand clutching the railing.

_Oh._

_Oh God._

She hurried the rest of the way down, stumbling over herself as she staggered to a halt and rounded the corner.

The first thing she noticed was Vernon, sitting still on the couch, a mug in his hand. His gaze was fixed, and when Petunia followed it, she saw _him_. A man in strange, loose purple robes, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. Long white hair and a beard framed his face, ending somewhere near his stomach. Petunia didn’t know the man. But he was familiar to her, in an uncanny sort of way.

And then it hit her. Her sister’s world. Those little cards which came with the chocolate frogs, that was where she knew him from. She’d seen his picture once, on the back of one of those cards that her sister had given her. This was a man who’d denied her, refused to allow her to partake in another world, just because she hadn’t lucked out the way her sister had.

“Hello, Professor Dumbledore,” she said. “Finally reconsidered, have you?”

The old man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was holding a tiny bundle in his hands, wrapped in a blanket.

“Hello, Petunia,” he replied. His voice somehow sounded rough and smooth at the same time. It was an odd observation to make, but this was the first time she’d ever met the man in person. “I’m not here for that, unfortunately.”

Her _I’m glad_ went unsaid, as Dumbledore smiled and shook his head.

“No, no. Something else has happened. Last night, I’m afraid.” He shifted the bundle in his arms, as if trying to subtly draw her attention to it. Well, it was working – she had to give him that much. “Although it is quite nice to finally meet you. Lily spoke of you often.”

Petunia felt her breathing quicken. She took a step back.

“Excuse me, um… Mr. Dumbledore,” Vernon spoke up. “While I’m sure that you’re not intending to, you’re making my wife very uncomfortable. And me as well, to be honest. I’d appreciate it if you could leave. Neither of us are really in the mood for this…” he paused, as if searching for a word. “Freakishness,” he said. “Sorry, couldn’t find a better word at the top of my head.”

“No, I should be the one apologizing. I’m aware that I’m intruding here, but I needed to speak to both of you face to face. This matter concerns both of you two.”

“Well, could you get to the point then?” Petunia asked. Dumbledore sighed.

“Very well. Petunia, I’m afraid that last night, Lily and her husband… passed.”

All at once, she could feel the cold again. Gripping her heart in a steel-cold vice. She didn’t think of her sister, most days. She’d been a presence in the background, someone who Petunia had known to be there, but had never had any intention of paying attention to. Lily had always been frozen, in her mind. The girl with the smile who made the leaves and the flowers spin and fly. The one who had begged for her to listen, to understand. And she’d refused.

“How?” she asked. Her voice was soft, quiet.

“A dark wizard. There was reason to target the Potters, as a powerful wizarding family. They had been a thorn in the side of this… particular dark wizard, for quite some time. It was partially a strategic move, I would assume, considering how the deaths of the Potters would otherwise have given them a large advantage in the ongoing war.”

Petunia opened her mouth to ask, but Vernon said it first.

“War?”

“Yes, Mr. Dursley. War. A wizarding war, if you would.”

“A war between… magic users? No… regular people?”

“No muggles are fighting, Mr. Dursley. They have, however, suffered casualties from so-called collateral damage.”

“Collateral–”

“Vernon,” Petunia cut in, “I know you’d love to hear more about… the war.”

“It sounds terrible, actually.”

“But,” she said, “I’d like to hear what he actually came here to say.”

_I want to know why my sister died._

Dumbledore nodded at her.

“Thank you, dear.” Her skin crawled at that. Only Vernon ever called her ‘dear’. “Lily and James were… murdered. However, they also had a child. I believe that you were aware of this?”

Petunia nodded. She remembered the letter, telling her about their daughter. She’d named her Hydrangea, to continue their little naming game. Only flower names for the girls in their family.

“She died too?” Petunia asked. She felt a pang of guilt as she said it. She’d just found out that she’d lost a sister, but she could barely bring herself to…

To really care.

But her child? That was a different story. Children were innocent of the sins of the world, and to know one might have died…

“No, no. Amazingly, little Hydrangea was the only survivor of the attack.” He shifted the bundle in his arms again. “However, she did not make it out… unscathed.”

There it was again. The cold vice, clamping around her heart.

“Professor? What do you mean?”

“Hydrangea was struck by a lethal curse. The killing curse, it’s called.”

“Oh, God,” Vernon murmured.

“Yes.” Dumbledore nodded. “However, the curse… somehow reflected off her. And it hit the spell’s caster, killing him instead. But when the spell made contact with her skin, there was a… wound.”

“A wound,” Petunia said. “Where? How deep? How bad was it?”

“It was not deep, nor was it harmful,” Dumbledore said calmly. “However, it is very much visible.” He lowered the bundle in his arms, placing it on the coffee table. The bundle squirmed, and Petunia gasped.

Dumbledore turned the bundle, and for a moment, she saw Lily again, the little girl with the floating flowers. But this wasn’t her. This was Hydrangea. The girl whose photo she’d ignored because Lily had sent one of those freakish moving ones which had blinked and laughed and waved.

Hydrangea gurgled, rolled a little, and Petunia recognized something there.

_I saw it in Dudley,_ she thought.

She had red hair, just like her mother’s. Petunia reached out, and Hydrangea smiled. She almost smiled back, but then she saw the scar. Stretching from the corner of her lip all the way down the side of her face, splitting off into five narrow fingers, all sprouting off in different directions in fountain curves. A flower sprouting from the center of her cheek.

“She was lucky,” Dumbledore said. “No one has ever survived that curse. Not directly. Always something thrown in the way, dodging to the side. But a direct hit? Unheard of. She should be dead, Petunia. But she isn’t.” He traced a line on his knee as he looked at Hydrangea. “I think you know what I’m going to ask you.”

“I don’t,” she lied. She wanted to hear him say it. Ask it. It wouldn’t feel right, otherwise, to take on that responsibility.

Dumbledore gave her a look which told her that he knew exactly what was going on in her head. But he asked anyway.

“Petunia, would you be willing to… take in Hydrangea?” She took a deep breath.

“I’m not sure you should be asking me, Professor.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Hydrangea… she was born from magical parents. I don’t have the greatest history or impression of magic. Professor. You’re telling me to look after a girl who reminds me of a world that I could never be a part of.”

“Then perhaps this is your way of being part of it. Look after Hydrangea, and when she comes of age–”

“It’s not that simple, Professor.”

“No?”

“No. I've told you about my… views.”

“I’m aware of what you think of magic, Petunia. That doesn’t change the fact that you were my first choice of who to entrust Hydrangea to.” Petunia looked at Vernon, willing him to say something. But he didn’t even look like he was paying attention. He was staring at the fire, watching it crackle and burn.

“I don’t understand, Professor. You’re aware of my prejudices–”

“Perhaps too strong a word.”

“–but you’re still willing to believe that I’ll treat her fairly?”

“Perhaps not. But I trust you to keep her safe.”

“And you would leave her with me? You’d leave a girl with magical blood under my roof?” Dumbledore sighed.

“Think of it this way, Petunia. Magical children don’t show magic immediately. In fact, many don’t until they encounter something distressing in their childhood. There’s a chance that if you looked after her, Hydrangea would display none of the usual… what the word you used? Ah. Freakishness.” Petunia flinched. “But don’t worry. You’re my first choice, not my only choice. There’s another wizarding family who I’m sure would be perfectly happy with taking her in.”

“Then why me?” she asked. “You _know_ I despise magic.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“Perhaps. But I’d be envious of her.”

“I imagine you would be.”

“So why?” she repeated. “Why, dammit?!”

“I’d rather have Lily’s sister raise Hydrangea than someone else,” he said. “Hydrangea needs a peaceful life. A _normal_ life. You can give her that. This girl has suffered enough, don’t you think?” Petunia looked at Hydrangea, still curled up in her blanket. She saw the scar, flowering into a claw of jagged cuts into her skin.

“Yes,” she said. “But that’s not all. It never is, not with you.” She looked him in the eye. “She used to talk to me, once.”

Dumbledore smiled. “She told you.”

“I figured things out from what she gave me.”

“Smart. No, that’s not everything. You’re the only person in the world, other than Hydrangea, who is related to Lily. That means that if I wanted to set up some blood wards which would provide her some extra protection, then your house would be the only place where I could do so.”

“You couldn’t just take some of my blood?”

“No, no. Blood magic is funny like that. I would need you, Petunia, to be in the same location as her. Boundaries would be drawn around you house.”

“Why all the extra protection? They got her parents, why would they want her?”

Dumbledore rubbed his wrist, propped up his glasses.

Petunia pressed on, “Professor.”

“Yes, yes. I… I don’t think that’s something you would want to know, Petunia.”

“You’re asking me to take her in so that you can give her better protection, but you won’t tell me why?”

“You told me you felt that you could never be a part of the magical world,” he said. “I’m trying not to make it hurt. Please. Leave it be.” She wanted to keep asking. To pester him, question him all night long. Why the protections were necessary. Why it was _Lily_ who’d had to die, instead of someone else. There were always more layers to everything, especially with magic, and she wasn’t blind enough to not see them.

But instead, she backed down. And in the blindness, there was comfort.

She nodded.

“Well? Will you?” He looked at her, then Vernon. “I’ll need an answer.”

“You’ll get one,” she said. “Just… let me talk to him?” Dumbledore nodded, then took Hydrangea back in his arms and walked away. Petunia sat next to Vernon on the couch.

“You were quiet,” she said.

“I wasn’t sure what to say,” he muttered. “The strangeness of tonight, now _this_ …”

“It’s been quite the night.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed.

“That,” he said, “is the biggest understatement I’ve encountered in my life.” Petunia giggled.

“God, I’m going crazy. This is… this is a lot, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Vernon shifted in his seat, turned to face her. “Do you think we should?”

“Do you?” she asked back.

“I don’t think I’m the one who should give the final call.”

“Vernon, I’m too close to this.”

“And I don’t know _anything_ ,” he said. “You know about magic. You know the risks. If we take in your sister’s kid, I… I think I could live with it. The freak- uh, fantastical stuff. You need to figure out if _you_ could, because this is more about whether or not you think you could look after her right, knowing what you do.”

Petunia flinched back. Vernon… he meant well. But she couldn’t help it. That feeling. She’d heard him say biting things, angry things. His words were a weapon, and a weapon well honed, but never had he aimed it at her.

_You have a silver tongue, dear._

“There would have to be rules between us,” she said. “We’d have to talk to Dumbledore, know how to deal with a magical child.”

“But do you think you could? Could you handle it?”

“I think I could,” she said, and she was surprised that when the words flew off her lips, they sounded genuine. “But even I didn’t, Dumbledore told me that he’d rather that I raise him than someone out of the family. This girl… she deserves a life, Vernon.” Vernon closed his eyes.

“Then I suppose that’s a yes.”

They rose from the couch and walked over to where Dumbledore had lain Hydrangea on the kitchen counter. She was reaching up towards him, giggling. He tickled her chin, then turned towards them.

“Well?”

“We’ll take her in,” Petunia said. “But there’ll have to be rules. And we have questions for you.”

“I’m at your disposal,” he said. “But perhaps we should sit down for this. This will take some time.” They headed over to the couch again, sitting down as Dumbledore rested himself in Vernon’s armchair.

“Well,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

  
✿

Hydrangea and Dudley were playing in the backyard. It was sunny today, but she didn’t want them in the front. Too many people staring at Hydrangea’s scar had been a problem since day one, and she’d begun to ask questions about _why_ they were looking.

She thought she was weird, and Petunia wouldn’t let her think that. That just wasn’t right.

Hydrangea was sweet. She was thoughtful, kind, and definitely not bratty. She’d rubbed off on Dudley enough that he’d calmed down, become more sympathetic, with time. But there were still issues. Every time she thought things would be okay, Hydrangea surprised her. Saying things to Petunia as if she could read her mind. Saying a word which might have bordered on the cusp of magical. But these were coincidences. When she thought Hydrangea could read her mind, she was just observant. When she said those words, it was because she’d read them in a library book and wanted to know what they meant. Petunia’s paranoia was getting better, but every now and then, she still jumped. She still flinched. And Hydrangea would look at her with those innocent eyes and ask what was wrong, as Vernon stared over her shoulder and sighed.

She finished pouring her tea, setting the teapot back down. Vernon was staring out the window, watching as Dudley and Hydrangea ran circles around each other.

“They’re going to get tired soon,” he said.

“I’ll bring them in,” she said. “Don’t worry about that.”

She heard the sound of the doorbell ringing and got out of her chair.

“I’ll get it.”

Petunia made her way to the front of the house and opened the door.

“Hello, how can I–” She paled as she recognized the man standing on her doorstep. “Professor?”

“Petunia.” Dumbledore nodded at her. He looked grim, far more so than the last time they’d met. “How is Hydrangea?”

“She’s doing fine.” Petunia looked back at the yard. She could see them through the window. “Why? What’s going on?”

“There’s been a development,” he said. “You remember what I told you, about how your sister died?”

“Yes,” she muttered. “A dark wizard and a killing curse.”

“That, yes. We’ve been watching and listening, these past few years. Searching for a sign. I have news for you.”

“Good news?”

“No. Unfortunately not.” Dumbledore sighed. “I’m sorry about this, Petunia.”

“Sorry?” she looked at him in confusion. “Why?”

“Because it seems that I may have misled you, the last time we met.” Dumbledore coughed. “I received a message this morning. And it seems that the man who killed your sister is still alive.”


	2. Seed 0.1 - Daffodil

**Seed 0.1 – Daffodil**

She traced it with her finger, along the spiky edges, bumping along small hills of softer tissue where the flesh hadn’t healed, would never heal. Then she felt the end of her finger brush against another line, then another. The center of the web. Six ways to go.

She chose up, this time. The short narrow road took her all the way up to the corner of her eye, next to where the skin and the icky eyeball met. Her finger almost traced too far, before she quickly brought it back. She lowered her hand, smoothing out her top. Her hand brushed against colored sequins, and she smiled at the funny pink fish with the smiley face. She remembered when Aunt Petunia had bought the shirt for her – they’d been going shopping, Dudley complaining the entire time because he hadn’t gotten that new game console. She’d mostly been tuning him out, but then she’d pointed out the shirt in the window of a store they’d been passing. And Aunt Petunia had bought it right there.

Her aunt was the _best_.

Hydrangea let her toes brush against the dark blue carpet of her bedroom, feeling the cold air from the aircon up on the wall above her posters. The aircon was new, just installed this summer. Because Hydrangea hadn’t had any desire for a room all to herself until recently, when Aunt Petunia had first given the offer. It had been Dudley’s spare bedroom, but the truth was that no one had ever used it, apart from Shelley. And Shelley only went there because the windowsill was always warm. She looked at the windowsill, where she saw the tortoise laying in the warm sunlight. Yeah, Shelley was still here. He would leave if she left the aircon on for too long, though, and she didn’t want to make him move. He looked comfy there, warm and snug.

Getting to her feet, Hydrangea walked over to the wall to pick up the aircon remote and fiddle with the buttons – she still couldn’t really get it to work properly. She pointed it at the aircon and pressed the power button. Nothing happened. She frowned, then started pressing the arrow keys, then the ‘mode’ button, whatever that did. She sighed. She’d have to ask Aunt Petunia about it.

As she walked to the door, she looked at her posters, all bright and colorful and full of cartoon animals. Hydrangea wasn’t sure what their names were, really. The elephants, the foxes, cats, dogs. There were too many of them, from shows and books she’d never heard of. But the fact that Aunt Petunia had went to the effort of getting for her meant a lot.

The door handle wasn’t as high as it had been a few years ago. Now she could open it without having to reach up too high, even when she’d barely ever used this room. Shelley had pretty much lived in it until Dudley had remember about him, only to find out that Hydrangea had been looking after him the entire time. Dudley being Dudley, he’d taken Shelley and never said thank you, but Hydrangea hadn’t minded. Her ‘good deed for the day’ had been basically covered for two whole weeks.

As she passed through the upstairs hallway, she could already hear what was happening downstairs. The TV was on, which had to be Dudley, guessing by the odd sounds and volume alone. She couldn’t make out any words, until she began to piece out small bits during the gaps between the loud noises.

No, never mind. That was Aunt Petunia talking.

“I don’t think today’s a good day,” she heard her aunt say. “Maybe tomorrow, Marge. I’d be happy to meet up, but I’ve got to look after the kids, and Vernon’s at work. Yes, yes. I know. No.” There was a clattering sound, which Hydrangea guessed must have been plates, or something. Maybe her aunt was cooking.

“I already told you why,” Aunt Petunia continued, “I’m not insane, Marge. If you think I’d really think I’d leave the kids alone with Arabella Figg all day, every day… honestly. It’s not just that, but… I don’t want these kids to remember some old lady more than they remember me.”

Hydrangea crept down the stairs, careful not to step on the parts where the wood squeaked. She’d mapped it all out some time last year, so that she could head downstairs without people hearing. Aunt Petunia had never figured it out, but Uncle Vernon just thought it was funny.

“No!” she heard Aunt Petunia shriek from downstairs. Hydrangea stopped, her foot hovering an inch above the step. There was a pause, filled only by the sounds of Dudley’s cartoon. “Sorry Dudley. Ahem.” She cleared her throat. “Marge. If you think I’d ever willingly leave my kids with that dog of yours… No. It’s a terrible idea. I don’t understand how you think it’s even on the table. I liked my job, yes, but these kids are more important than work. Vernon’s job keeps us stable, and I most certainly do _not_ need Ripper to help me. He’ll only scare them.”

Hydrangea finally reached the bottom of the stairs, immediately peeking her head into the living room. Aunt Petunia was at the stove, the phone tucked in between her neck and her shoulder, as she flipped something over with her spatula. She spotted Hydrangea right away, giving her a pleasant smile before scowling.

“Marge. Marge. No, stop. Please. Listen. I’ll meet with you; I’d really love to. But Vernon and I are busy. We don’t get a lot of chances, and I don’t want our meeting to be soured by _Ripper_ being there. I won’t be seeing you for months after, probably.”

Hydrangea walked over to the couch, where Dudley was sitting. She strung her arms over the back, wrapping them around him.

“Hi Dudley.”

He twisted around to grin at her. “Hey, Hydra.”

Hydrangea groaned, removing her arms from him and skipping around the couch to sit at his side.

“I told you not to call—”

“Not to call you Hydra?” Dudley elbowed her. “It’s a cool name, you have to admit.”

“It’s lame,” she mumbled. “Cool to _you_ , maybe.”

“Piers thinks it’s cool too.”

“Piers thinks that everything is cool,” she protested. “What are you even watching, anyway?” She gestured to the screen, where a large dragon-thingy was breathing fire on some random wooden house.

“I don’t know. I turned it on, and this was already playing. It looked interesting.” Dudley shrugged as the dragon took flight, its big black wings buffeting the burning house.

“Because of the dragon, right?” Hydrangea guessed. She shifted up so her legs were crossed on the couch cushion, while Dudley moved to lie on his side.

“Wasn’t a dragon before,” he said. “Was just some knight guy running around. I figured I was at the end of some movie or whatever, so I kept watching.”

“So?” She looked at him. “Did it get interesting?”

“Eh.” Dudley waggled his hand. Hydrangea rolled her eyes.

“No, then.”

“It isn’t too bad,” he said, like he was afraid of saying anything too negative about it. “There’s a few good fight scenes and stuff. Some of them are a little goofy, though.”

“Goofy how?” Hydrangea asked, just before the dragon was hit out of the sky by a massive boulder, flopping pathetically as it hit the ground.

Dudley pointed at the screen. “Like that.”

Hydrangea watched the dragon as it thrashed around, confused.

“What do you think is in their heads?” she asked him. “You know, the people who make these things.”

“You mean when they’re making them?”

“Yeah, that.”

Dudley frowned. “Maybe they just don’t want really serious stuff. We probably would have enjoyed this more when we were younger.” He shrugged. “On second thought, I would have been too scared to watch this when I was younger. You?”

Hydrangea shook her head.

“I don’t scare easy,” she said.

“Yeah. Because you’re a _Hydra_ ,” Dudley said, grinning.

“No, I just never got the point. You could be scare of this stuff, but you’ll probably laugh at it years from now. Why not learn to laugh at it now?”

Dudley smirked at her, then leaned forward to whisper something in her ear.

“Hydra.”

Hydrangea batted him away, rolling her eyes.

“It isn’t funny Dudley.” Her cousin shrugged, then glued his eyes back to the screen. She wouldn’t be getting anything more out of him.

She followed suit, interlacing her fingers and laying her hands in between her legs. As the dragon lashed out at a group of knights with its mighty tail, Hydrangea heard Aunt Petunia, still talking on the phone.

“… bad idea. Don’t pretend. You know exactly what I mean. Marge, if I have to say this again, I _will_ hang up. Alright? I don’t want Ripper’s help, and I don’t want yours. I’ll meet you tomorrow, yes, but keep your dogs out of it. Please.” There was the sound of sizzling bacon, just as the dragon crawled forward and dug its claws into the burning earth. Screams echoed from the TV. Hydrangea looked at Dudley. He leaned forward, then sighed.

“They must have missed something there,” he said. “Flames were blue for some reason.”

“Blue flames are hotter than red,” Hydrangea told him. “It’s some weird science thing I don’t really get.”

“That’s not the problem. It’s the… I don’t know the word. The problem is, the dragon’s been breathing red fire the entire time. You can’t tell me it breathes blue now.”

“That’s just regular movie writing. They want to make the last part cooler.”

“They sacrifice the consistency.”

“Better the consistency than a decent conclusion.”

Dudley looked mortified.

“You really think this is going to have a decent conclusion?” He waved at the screen. “This fight scene is just about as uncreative as every other movie’s final act.”

“I thought you liked the fight scenes,” she said.

“Not this one,” he said. “The last one it always the worst.”

“Is that a fact now?”

“Always has been,” he said. “Well, I mean, Dad says so.”

Of course, Uncle Vernon would have said something like that. He had always been the one to rant and rave, even if he never seemed to be upset at whatever he was complaining about. It was probably just some habit he’d picked up from one of his work friends or something. Uncle Vernon _really_ liked talking about his work friends. Hydrangea was never really interested in hearing about them, but it was cool whenever he would talk to her as she sat in the back seat, him driving up front, complaining about someone called ‘George’ who she’d never met. Apparently, Aunt Petunia hadn’t met this ‘George’ either, so she was pretty sure that George was either made up, or invisible. She’d never met an invisible person before. That would be pretty cool.

Aunt Petunia had frozen up last week when she’d asked if George could be invisible. She’d given her a no, but her voice had been all weird and shaky. Hydrangea had tried to follow her, but then Uncle Vernon had told her to leave her alone. So she had gone outside to water the daffodils. It had been a nice day, warm and sunny. Blue sky. And then as she had been leaning over, she’d heard the gasp she knew so well. Starting suddenly and high pitched, then cutting off partway through when the realization hit them. They always made the same noise. It didn’t matter whether they were old or young or a guy or a girl or any of that. She could always tell when people were looking.

She remembered looking up at the young lady and her kids, seeing their faces as they stared at her. Their eyes had followed her face as she’d straightened up. But none of them had been looking her in the eye. She’d smiled, said hi, casually brushed aside her red hair, so they could see it for just a split second. The thick, veiny fingers crawling up the side of her face. The flower blooming into red strokes from a bristled brush. Thin and narrow.

The woman hadn’t said anything. Just a quick nod, then she had turned away and kept walking. Her children hadn’t followed her. They’d just kept staring.

Humans were so _odd_. Plants were much better. At least they didn’t make weird faces and give you frantic apologies when you caught them looking for too long. Plants were honest. Plants were _open_.

Their mother had called out to them, telling to come with her. ‘Stop looking at the nice girl.’ That- that right there. That was the problem with every human she’d ever met, apart from her family. That word. _Nice_. That woman hadn’t meant that. She’d said it because she’d felt bad, because she’d looked at that scar and thought bad things, and only after that had she considered that something might have _happened_. And Hydrangea had smiled back at her so that the scar would stretch across her face, till the ends were long and pointy and the point reaching her lip became a curl, not a jagged bolt. And she’d seen her flinch.

That had hurt. Those feelings weren’t ones she usually felt. It was only when she went out, only when people walked past. But every time, she felt that little pull at her gut, pulsing and the tumbling, like there was a mini washing machine in her stomach which kept rumbling as folds of fabric spun around inside it.

Aunt Petunia told her that people called it butterflies. But those hadn’t been butterflies – butterflies weren’t as long and wide, and butterflies didn’t scramble against the inside of your body as they climbed up the lining of your stomach. They weren’t as hard weren’t heavy enough to give her that feeling of her heart sinking to the floor. And butterflies didn’t make you hear voices that told you what people were thinking.

The voices were imaginary, they had to be, because they’d been wrong when they told her Dudley wanted to talk to her, and then he’d told her to go away. Things happened like that a lot. The voices had come and told her what that woman had been thinking. That she wanted to get home, that she was uncomfortable, that she felt embarrassed. But Hydrangea already knew that from looking at her face. She didn’t need the voices. The voices were company, but that was it.

She’d gone out once a day, every day, because she’d thought that if she went out often enough, then people would begin to stop looking. That the same people from around the neighborhood would know who she was, they wouldn’t look, or maybe they’d say hi and she could go back to watering the flowers. But they were always different. She’d seen some of the same people more than once, but all they did was try so hard to look away that the washing machine just rumbled louder, and the ‘butterflies’ were pressing up against the walls until she thought she would explode.

She traced her finger along her scar from the lip, and she came to the junction. She went straight down, down her chin, down her neck, till she met the fabric of her shirt. She let her finger drag down a little more, before she stopped. No need to go all the way. She already knew where it ended. She’d looked at it enough in the mirror to know exactly where each path went, some of them going further than others. The downward one was the longest, and the one going to her lip was the shortest. All the other ones were sort of in between those two.

On the screen the dragon roared, and Hydrangea sank down into the couch, pulling her legs up to her chest. Her hair got in front of her eyes, and she brushed it out of the way. She turned to look at Dudley. He was staring at her, studying her face. She smiled at him.

“You okay?” he asked. Her smile widened. She felt the jagged lines stretching across her face.

“I’m alright,” she lied. She let go, her muscles relaxing as her mouth set into a thin line. “Just thinking.” She looked back at the screen, and the dragon pulled a fistful of dirt out of the ground.

Hydrangea turned her head to Aunt Petunia. She was still on the phone, but she wasn’t talking, just nodding along and making small noises every few seconds as the bacon sizzled on one pan and the eggs on a smaller one. She used a spatula to slide under the egg, then flip it onto a plate. She looked up at Hydrangea, meeting her eyes. Gave her a small thumbs up for her trouble. Hydrangea signaled back, before Aunt Petunia nodded and went back to looking at the bacon and humming sympathetically as ‘Marge’ kept talking. She could hear the ranting, raving voice on the other end of the phone. Aunt Petunia probably wasn’t even listening, as she placed the last of the bacon onto the plate and turned off the stove.

“Marge,” she said. “I have to go and give the kids their breakfast. Can we talk later?” There was a pause as Marge screeched on the other end. “I’ll talk to you later. I think they’re getting hungry. Uh huh. I’m hanging up now. Bye.” The phone went back onto its stand, and Aunt Petunia smiled brightly at the two of them. “Hungry?” she asked.

Hydrangea grinned. “Mm.” She drooped over the side of the couch, head lolling to the side. “What did Aunt Marge want?”

“Wanted to meet up,” Aunt Petunia said as she brought the plates over to the table. “She’s having trouble with things, and she wanted advice. I didn’t want to have that kind of talk from over the phone, so I told her we’d meet up instead. She agreed, and then she went off the rails.”

“What kind of stuff did she want advice on?” Dudley asked, getting up from the couch. Hydrangea grunted as the relieved pressure from Dudley’s end cause the pillow to shift positions.

Aunt Petunia looked at Dudley, then went back to setting the table. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

Dudley frowned as Hydrangea giggled and poked his side. “Mum—”

“When you’re _older_ ,” her aunt repeated, stressing the last word. “I don’t to make your brain hurt.” Dudley just looked confused, but Hydrangea was pretty sure that whenever Aunt Petunia said ‘Whenever you’re older’, she really meant girl stuff he wouldn’t understand. It certainly fit with all the other times she’d said it, as far as she was aware.

“Anyways.” Aunt Petunia clapped her hands. “Breakfast is ready.” Dudley rushed to the table, instantly hopping into the first seat he came to. Hydrangea untangled herself before standing up, stretching her arms to the ceiling. She walked over to the seat beside Dudley and slid into place.

Before her was a plate of eggs and bacon, done in the Petunia Dursley style. This ultimately meant that she’d somehow managed to break the yolk as she’d carried it over to the table and add way too much salt and pepper. But no matter- good food was good food. She picked up her knife and fork and began to dig in.

“Did you two sleep well?” Aunt Petunia asked as Dudley wolfed down an entire piece of bacon. Hydrangea shot him a scathing look, before immediately switching back to a smile as she turned to her aunt.

“Slept fine, thanks,” she said. “The bed was the right temperature, if you know what I mean.”

“Mm, I know.” Aunt Petunia smiled at her, then looked at Dudley. “Dudley?”

Her cousin waggled his hand, before swallowing and gasping for air. “Was alright. No idea what you mean though, Hydra.”

“She doesn’t like that name, Dudley,” Aunt Petunia said. “Apologize.”

Dudley shot her a look.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Try again.”

“I—” He sighed, then spoke again, “I’m really sorry.”

“S’alright,” Hydrangea mumbled. “Could have been worse.” She looked at her plate and frowned. She was pretty sure she couldn’t have eaten her egg _that_ quickly. Oh, well. Maybe her aunt’s cooking was just really good.

“So,” Aunt Petunia said as she set down her cutlery, “I might have to go out today. If I end up doing that, do I need to leave you two at Mrs. Figg’s?”

“I think. Maybe.” Hydrangea shrugged. “Your decision.”

“I’m not asking that.” Her aunt sighed, picking up her fork and stabbing a piece of bacon. “I’m asking if I can trust you two. To be responsible.”

“Sure you can,” Dudley said, definitely lying.

“Probably not,” Hydrangea said truthfully. “Best not to leave things to chance. But if you think you can…”

“I’m glad that at least _one_ of you is reliable.” Aunt Petunia gave Dudley a mock glare, then went back to her plate. “Well, I’m sure you can manage yourself. There’s soup in the fridge, but don’t try and cook it over the stove, I’m afraid you’ll trip over and burn your face off.” Dudley laughed like he thought it was funny, but Hydrangea took that at face value. It wasn’t exactly an unreasonable fear. “Anyway,” she said, “just use the microwave. Two and a half minutes. Sounds good?”

Hydrangea’s mouth was full, so she just shrugged. Dudley was nodding furiously, enough that Hydrangea was worried his head would separate from his neck and go flying across the table.

…And _that_ was a mental image she wished she’d never thought up.

“I can trust you then?” Aunt Petunia asked. “If I leave? Hydrangea, I’m asking you, since Dudley won’t answer me properly.”

“I am!” he protested before she shot him another glare.

Hydrangea looked down at her plate, her hands clutching her knees. When it had been a general question for the both of them, that had somehow been fine. But now, when it was aimed directly at her?

She turned to face her aunt, as the not-butterflies began to skitter around in her stomach.

“Yeah, you can trust us,” she said, and she wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not.

Aunt Petunia nodded, then kept eating. Hydrangea slowly cut a piece of bacon, her appetite gone. The not-butterflies kept squirming in her stomach, a constant reminder of a lie which wasn’t a lie.

⚘

The wet grass flattened underneath her sandals, each step matching the thudding rhythm of the rumbling washing machine in her stomach. The not-butterflies were still, there, pressing up against the insides of her tummy and flattening their wings against the sides. She felt heart bob up and down, the stomach shifting to the side to make room for the lungs as they expanded and then decompressed. Her heart grew and then dropped like a stone, Hydrangea stumbling as she walked.

She should have seen the signs. She really should have. She shouldn’t have said yes, should’ve gone to Mrs. Figg’s…

Hydrangea shook her head. There was no good in that now. She was going to do this, and if the stress and regret was too much, then that was just too bad. If the guilt was so bad that she literally felt weak at the knees, then she would just have to deal with it.

Watering can in hand, Hydrangea made it to the front of the lawn. Aunt Petunia had grown daffodils along the perimeter of the garden, ‘just because’. Hydrangea couldn’t make much sense of it when all the other flowers in the garden were large and colorful, easily able to stand out on their own. In a way, the daffodils were sort of just a border around the garden, but they were a welcome splash of color, and admittedly quite pretty.

Hydrangea began to sprinkle them with water, making sure not to give them too much as she walked along. She did her best to make sure that each flower got an equal share of water, even when she had to go back to the hose and refill the watering can. It was hard to gauge exactly how much water she was pouring on each plant, but a rough estimate generally worked with these sorts of things. She passed the watering can over the next flower, and the next, walking along the grass. She could hear her footsteps as she walked, each feeling louder and heavier than the last.

She paused, her watering can still sprinkling over the flowers.

The footsteps kept going. There was no crunch of wet grass, no slick abrasion of rubber soles sliding on slippery ground. She looked up and a shadow fell across her hand.

The lady from the other week was standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, the low-hanging arch of chain connecting two posts being the only thing separating the two. The lady glanced back at the way she must have come, then back at Hydrangea.

“Hi,” she said, and Hydrangea could _feel_ the nervousness in her voice, because she had it too. The woman shifted her footing. “We, uh, met last week.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Hydrangea said. “Hi.” She gripped the handle of the watering can tighter, straightening her back. The washing machine rumbled away inside her.

“Yeah,” the woman echoed awkwardly. “I wanted to apologize for last week. For, um…”

“It’s alright,” Hydrangea said. She set the watering can down. “Everyone does it, it’s not your fault.”

“No, no. It was rude of me,” she said. “I, um, shouldn’t have stared so long.”

_You shouldn’t have stared at all,_ Hydrangea thought, _but humans are weird._

“Most people stare for longer,” Hydrangea told her. “You were better than most.”

“That’s—” the woman began, then stopped. “Um. I’m sorry.” Hydrangea looked her in the eye, felt the not-butterflies scurrying about with the heavy thrum of the washing machine. Voices whispered from the corners of her mind, probing their way in with hushed phrases and promises of information.

She pushed them away.

“No you’re not,” Hydrangea said. She felt a pain in her hands, and looked down to see them both curled into fists, pressing way too hard into her skin. When had she done that?

“I am,” the woman insisted, but Hydrangea was barely listening to her anymore. Her words stank of lies, and she hated lies. She reached down for her watering can, but then she started talking again. “I wanted to let you know, um, my name is Melanie. Melanie Evans. I’m moving in a few houses away from you, so I just wanted to tell you that you might see me around.”

Hydrangea paused. “Evans?” Her mother’s name.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” She thought about it, looked back at the woman, ‘Melanie Evans’. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” Mela- Ms. Evans asked. “My name?”

Hydrangea shrugged. “It was my mother’s last name.”

“Her last name was Evans?”

“Mm. I considered it, but I don’t think you could be related to her. All the girls in her family had flower names. I don’t think there’s a flower called Melanie.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Ms. Evans shrugged. “I um, I wanted to ask you, but I’m not sure if I’d be prying—”

“Car crash,” Hydrangea said, cutting in. “That’s what you wanted to know, right?” Ms. Evans was looking down.

“Not exactly, but it answers the question. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“For prying.”

“You weren’t prying,” Hydrangea said. She shifted her feet so that the not-butterflies would stop poking at her side. “It’s fine.” She looked at Ms. Evans. “Where are your kids?”

“They’re not my kids.” She pointed back in the direction she’d came. “I live with my cousins. I’m pretty sure I’m way too young to have kids.”

_Huh. I live with my cousin too._

“And how old are you?” Hydrangea asked. Aunt Petunia had told her it was rude to ask how old someone was, but she didn’t really get _why_. It was a question which when answered would resolve certain niggling thoughts, do away with all the stupid boundaries you weren’t sure if you were allowed to cross, and erect other ones so you had a better idea of how you should watch your step. It was a completely reasonable question, and if people were offended when asked how old they were, then that was just self-consciousness being ratcheted up to an unreasonable level.

“Sixteen right now,” Melanie said. She was right, she was _way_ too young for Hydrangea to call her Ms. Evans in her head. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be flattered or weirded out that you think I look like a mother.”

“You were walking with younger kids, I jumped to a conclusion,” Hydrangea said. “Nothing more than that. It was my bad.” She decided not to tell Melanie that this conversation was starting to get the not-butterflies riled up. She probably didn’t need to hear that.

“That’s… that’s fine.” Melanie glanced over Hydrangea’s shoulder. “Is your… aunt at home?”

“Yes,” Hydrangea lied. She shifted her footing, so that she could start running if she needed to. “Why?”

“I know she saw me. Staring at you. I wanted to apologize, because well, I know I already talked to you, but…”

Hydrangea studied the older girl’s face, as she felt the not-butterflies begin to ease up.

“You’re telling the truth,” she said definitively. “Aunt Petunia’s not here right now.”

“Then why did you—” Melanie began, before sighing. “Oh. Yeah, of course. Nice one.”

“Was there anything else?” Hydrangea asked. The question elicited a reaction from the not-butterflies, which began to claw furiously at her stomach. She placed a hand against her stomach and squeezed, as she fought to keep a straight face.

_Was I not supposed to ask her that?_

“That was…” Melanie shrugged. “I think that’s it. I’m going to just… continue my walk, I guess. Check out the neighborhood, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Hydrangea said. Something jabbed at the inside of her stomach. She winced. “Sure.”

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” Melanie said. Hydrangea shrugged, then motioned to her watering can. Realization dawned on Melanie’s face. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’ll… I’ll just leave.”

Hydrangea gave her the best smile she could give, considering the thousands of not-butterflies pressing up and clawing against her insides.

“S’alright. I’ll see you.” She gave Melanie a timid wave, as the other girl began to walk away. She was still looking at her.

_Please. Please, just turn away._

Melanie finally turned.

_Thank—_

Something poked at her, hard, and Hydrangea collapsed. Her breathing was heavy as she felt the washing machine stop rumbling, her body stop shaking. But the not-butterflies were still there, clambering over each other and digging into her sides. And then she tried to move, and she felt them all move through her. They poured out of the stomach and continued to crawl, travelling to the ends of her body as single skittering lines, one at a time. She tried to scream, and she felt them crawling in her throat, sharp legs digging into flesh to haul themselves upwards.

Hydrangea lifted a hand, thrusting it into her mouth to try and pull it out. She scrabbled for a hold, and all she felt as a result was nausea. The not-butterflies stayed just out of reach, and she leaned forward as she felt the rise in her throat which meant she was about to vomit. Nothing came out. She felt no vomit flowing up her throat, spraying into the grass, but she felt _something_. Something like warmth and electricity, merged together whilst being there and _not_ there. She raised the hand to her mouth, and she felt nothing. The crawling not-butterflies were gone, no longer skittering around the insides of her.

She reached forward, gasping as she felt _something_ inside her begin to trickle down. She felt _empty_ , in a way she had never felt before. It was not a physical feeling, not a hunger or a craving, simply a lack of something. She pressed her hand to her stomach, and felt no hidden organ begin to flex or shrink as the lack of that _something_ which had always been there for as long as she could remember. She wasn’t sure what it was, that made her feel so empty. But then she remembered the feeling of wings flattening against the insides of her stomach, of a million tiny legs crawling against her skin.

_The not-butterflies._

She knew that wasn’t what they were, but she didn’t know what _else_ to call them. Aunt Petunia told her they were butterflies when they definitely weren’t, and she didn’t know what else had such enormous wings and tiny insect legs. Unless they weren’t insects at all.

Shuffling forward on her knees, Hydrangea reached for the watering can, which had tipped over when she’d collapsed. It wasn’t fully empty, she discovered, although most of the water had flowed out.

No matter. She’d just finish the rest of the water, and then she’d head back inside to—

Hydrangea froze as she looked at the row of daffodils she’d been watering. Each of them was now dark and blackened, green stalks and leaves and white petals now indistinguishable. She reached forward, and she realized that her hand was shaking.

_What did I—_

She looked from her hand to the flowers, fingers trembling.

_What did I do?_

She gently grabbed at one of the flowers, and the entire thing broke apart into bits of ash. Hydrangea looked at the grey dust now settled in her palm, then back to where the flower had been. She felt none of the things in her stomach begin to act up – she only felt the difference, from when she had been lacking that thing, to now. The lack was still there, but there was less of one. The gulf between the two selves had lessened, as if the string connecting them had been pulled tighter. She lay her hand against the ground, and something skittered in her stomach. There was no panic this time, not even discomfort. She nodded, and the skittering crash over her as a wave, enveloping the entire body before rushing back into the stomach.

Hydrangea felt an odd calm, as she allowed the dust in her hand to sprinkle back onto the soil. She wasn’t sure what she would tell Aunt Petunia when she came home. ‘I was talking to the new neighbors and it happened while it wasn’t looking.’ ‘I sort-of-didn’t-throw-up and it was like that when I looked back.’ ‘I don’t even know.’

No, that felt disingenuous. When she came home, she’d tell her the truth. ‘I did it.’ She wasn’t sure how she’d even done it. But she knew she had, the same way she knew that the not-butterflies would be back, the same way that she’d known Melanie was telling the truth. Pure, raw instinct. If Aunt Petunia was alright with it – confused but alright – then that was great. If she was angry, that wasn’t ideal, but it was okay. She probably deserved it, considering the state of the daffodils.

She looked at the line of blackened plants, and when she tried to feel, she felt—

_—content._

Was that what this was? This amazing feeling?

She shoved it aside. Now wasn’t the time.

She would water the rest of the plants, the ones which hadn’t been caught up in… whatever this was. She would head back inside. And she would wait for her Aunt to come home.

Hydrangea got up and felt the skittering of a million legs in a distant chamber.

⚘

Her heart pounded as she heard the sound of Aunt Petunia’s car pulling up in the driveway. She was dimly aware of Dudley playing one of his video games, but that had long faded into the background. She’d started watching him at some point after lunch, but it was criminally repetitive. She didn’t understand how anyone could find that kind of thing _fun_ , much less a way to destress.

She was already waiting at the door when her aunt knocked, and she quickly swung it wide open. Her aunt looked happy, which was an odd thing to see after a long day of… work, or whatever it was adults did. And she should have been angry about the front lawn, but it was almost as if she hadn’t even—

“Hydrangea,” her aunt greeted her. “Did you two manage?”

“Sure,” she said. She shifted her footing. “You’re… not mad?”

“About what?” Aunt Petunia asked.

“The flowers?” Hydrangea glanced past her. In the warm glow of the setting sun, she could make out the shapes of… a full row of daffodils, completely unharmed. “What?” She coughed, stumbled a little. A million sharp legs pierced the sides of her gut.

“Flowers? Hydrangea?” Aunt Petunia caught her as she collapsed, her arms wrapping tightly around her. Hydrangea breathed, shuddering against her aunt’s shoulder. Warm.

“They weren’t there before,” she whispered. She squeezed her aunt. “They weren’t there before.”

“What wasn’t there before?” Aunt Petunia asked. Her voice was worried, but at the same time, there was warmth to it.

“The flowers,” Hydrangea gasped out. “The flowers, they were dead but now they’re not, but they _were_ and I—”

The things in her stomach all began to flutter uncontrollably. She shrieked as she felt their wings slap against her sides, a million of their legs scrabbling against each other.

“Hydrangea!” She felt her aunt hold her tighter, but the things didn’t stop. Hydrangea blinked tears out of her eyes as the world tumbled to the side. “What happened to the flower?”

“They were all burnt up,” she whispered. “They were all black and burned, and I don’t know _how_ it happened, but—”

“It’s okay,” Aunt Petunia said. “Look, we’re going to go look at the flowers, okay. And even if there’s anything wrong with them, I won’t be mad with you. Okay?” Hydrangea nodded shakily.

“Okay,” she said.

Aunt Petunia released her from the hug and took her by the hand. As they walked, Hydrangea felt the skittering again. She’d thought she’d finally escaped it, when the flowers had all burned up. But that wasn’t true. She felt the pain again, a thousand times worse, because this was the kind of stuffed up world she lived in.

Aunt Petunia kneeled beside the flowers, then looked at Hydrangea.

“Nothing weird.”

“Really?” Hydrangea kneeled down next to her. “But… I don’t understand.”

Aunt Petunia’s hand traced through the grass, before she came to a stop. She turned to Hydrangea, eyes wide.

“Hydrangea,” she began, but Hydrangea wasn’t looking at her face. She was looking at the ashen flower which her aunt held in her hand. “I think we need to talk,” she finished. Hydrangea shrank in on herself, as the flower crumbled. Her aunt paused, before talking again.

“What do you know about magic?” she asked.

The scurrying legs clashed against each other, a constant storm of pounding beats. Hydrangea took a shuddering breath, then met her aunt’s eyes.

“I know it’s what’s wrong with me,” she said, believing every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, new story. First time I've ever posted on Archive, actually, so if this comes out with weird formatting or whatever, forgive me.
> 
> Anyways, I might upload this on FFN too, but I dunno. I'm kinda lazy. :P
> 
> So yeah, this is a Fem!Harry. It wasn't originally (I rolled a dice), but that's how things are. This fic is mostly experimental, but I do have places I want to take it. In essence, I'm going to see where the story goes from two main points of diversion:  
> -Lily and James Potter had a daughter, not a son  
> -Lily and James' child has a good relationship with her aunt and uncle
> 
> Now, initially, this might not seem like much. But things will derail quite quickly. You'll probably get a taste of that next chapter. I'm planning on updating this once a fortnight, but I may miss updates every now and then. 
> 
> My Harry Potter knowledge isn't top notch, so if I make any major errors, I very much apologize. Particularly on the subject of magical creatures. I tend to go a little wild.
> 
> That's pretty much it. Thanks for reading. :D  
> Hope y'all are enjoying this so far. Any constructive criticism is appreciated.


	3. Seed 0.2 - The Loss of Innocence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really annoyed at myself for promising myself that I'd upload a chapter of this story every two weeks. Because I don't have one prepared for next week. I have a half-completed chapter for another story which I'm only finishing because I want to get on with writing the remake. If I don't upload another chapter of Evergreen in two weeks, then you know it's because I uploaded that chapter on FFN instead.
> 
> Okay. Um. Hope you enjoy the chapter. This should give you a pretty good vibe as to what kind of direction this story is going. And I promise, no, it's not a "Harry masters magic before arriving at Hogwarts" story. Just... No. It's not, believe me. I don't want to take any of those directions, I'd rather do something actually plausible.
> 
> And I don't own Harry Potter, because otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. Okay, on with the show.

**Seed 0.2 – The Loss of Innocence**

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she heard her aunt lie for the eighth time tonight, attempting to reassure her. Hydrangea shivered.

_The eighth time in my life._

“If there’s nothing wrong with me,” she said, “then why do I feel those things?”

“The… the butterflies?”

“They’re not butterflies.” She unclenched her fist and saw the shadow of a claw outlines by flickering firelight. “They’re not butterflies, because butterflies don’t grow in your tummy and try to break _out_.”

“Hydrangea, I told you—”

“If there’s nothing wrong with me, then why do I have _this_?” She jabbed at her scar. “Kids hate me. Their _parents_ hate me. They look at me like I’m diseased, Aunt Petunia. And they play an _actual game_ about disease.”

“Those people don’t know you,” Aunt Petunia said. “They don’t know how amazing you are, how kind you are. People can be cruel, sometimes. That’s… just how it is.” She was sitting next to her on the couch, arm wrapped around her. The sun had already set – there was nothing outside but the black of night.

“The problem,” she choked out, “is that they don’t _want_ to know me. I try to talk to them, and they call me the Scar Girl, or Scarface, or the Evil Hydra. They tell me I’m stuffed up.”

“Believe me, you are _not_ stuffed up,” Aunt Petunia said. Hydrangea cringed.

_Nine times now._

“I know I am. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m _not_.” Aunt Petunia adjusted her arm so that she was pulling Hydrangea in tighter. “I… I know what stuffed up is. You are _not_ that.”

“Then what is?” Hydrangea asked. “Because if I’m not stuffed up, then I don’t know what _is_.”

“So much of the world. The fact that people treat you that way. That you have to feel these… butterflies.”

“Not butterflies.”

“ _Those_ things are stuffed up,” Aunt Petunia said, acting as if she hadn’t just been interrupted. “But you’re not. Stuffed up is wrong. And there’s nothing wrong with you.”

Hydrangea looked into her aunt’s eyes. She leaned in closer.

“Do you really believe that?” she asked.

“Of course,” her aunt replied.

“Then… is magic stuffed up?”

“I…” Aunt Petunia cleared her throat. “I think we should stop saying that.”

“Stuffed up, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I won’t say it.” Hydrangea hugged her back. Aunt Petunia rubber her shoulder.

“I used to think magic was stuffed up, when I was your age. My sister, she… she could use magic.” Hydrangea shifted.

“Is that why you hated her?” she asked. “Because she had magic?” Aunt Petunia didn’t respond at first. She took Hydrangea’s hand in hers, squeezing it tight.

“No,” she said. “Jealousy. She could use magic, but I… I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I could never _do_ anything like she could.”

“My mum could do things? Is that how you knew?”

“Mm. She could make flowers float in the air. She could control the wind, on her good days. On her bad days, I saw stones being torn out of the ground. She could get violent, sometimes.”

“Magic sounds violent in general,” Hydrangea murmured.

“From what I know, most of it is. But I was a kid. Just like all of those kids who… who treat you that way.” She didn’t say ‘stuffed up.’ She didn’t need to.

“I didn’t understand what magic really was. I thought it was just this… this _amazing_ thing that special people could use. I wanted to be one of those special people so badly. So when your mother received an invitation to go to a special school for witches and wizards, I wanted to go _with her_. I wanted to be special like her.”

“But they didn’t let you in, did they?” Hydrangea asked. Aunt Petunia gave her a sad smile.

“They couldn’t,” she said. “Because I couldn’t use magic. Your mother, she was what they called a Muggle-born. A magical child born from two non-magical parents. I thought that maybe, I was like her. I wasn’t, and I became spiteful because of it.”

“So, there are a lot of them?” she asked. “Wizards and witches.”

“All over the world, if I understand correctly. But I couldn’t give you an exact number.”

“Wow,” Hydrangea murmured. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Aunt Petunia said. “Wow. I know, it’s a lot.”

“Mm. Sure. Did my mum feel… the things?”

“The things which _aren’t_ butterflies?”

“Yeah. Those.”

“I don’t think so. She never told me about anything like that. But I honestly wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. I was terrible to her.”

“I don’t know how,” Hydrangea muttered. “You’re a great person.” Petunia smiled, as if she’d just told her a joke.

“I wish I was,” she said. “But I wasn’t, and I’m still not. I called her names. I called her… a freak. I acted like she wasn’t even my sister, just because she could make things fly.”

“Were you close, before that?” Hydrangea asked.

“Up until she met Snape. He was her best friend, for a long time. When she first started doing things, she must have been five or so. I wasn’t happy that I couldn’t do what she could, but I was okay with that, to a certain point. I had a fine line.”

“And that line was Snape?”

“Snape was his surname, actually. But, yes. Severus Snape was that line. And when he started telling her about this school, Hogwarts, where they would both go when they were eleven, I just couldn’t bear it. In my mind, I’d just found out that she wasn’t the only one who could do those kinds of things. I called her freak, and she… she left.”

“And did you see her again?” Hydrangea asked.

“When she came back. But I was… stupid. I pushed her away, because I still envied her. I wanted her abilities; I wanted that opportunity to _be_ like her. I begged the headmaster to let me go, but he refused. He was kind about it, but it still hurt. That I couldn’t get into that school, because of something I didn’t luck out on at birth.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Hydrangea said.

“It doesn’t. But looking back, I can’t blame them. I can’t imagine how I would have managed at a magic school when I couldn’t perform magic. I would have been bullied, angry at myself, angry at my sister… no, it’s a good thing that I didn’t go.”

“But it made you hate my mom.”

“No. That was my fault. I let myself hate her, because it was easier to hate her than try to understand that it really wasn’t her fault.”

“It was out of your hands,” Hydrangea said. “Not your fault, Auntie.”

Aunt Petunia laughed bitterly.

“I doubt anyone else would have suggested that.”

“I am, then.” She pulled herself closer, laying her head against her chest. “The world is… is…” She hesitated. Aunt Petunia smiled.

“Stuffed up?” she guessed. Hydrangea nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “It really is.”

“Well, it certainly could be better.” Hydrangea smiled.

“So, um. This school for magic.”

“Hogwarts?”

“Hogwarts, yeah. Would I have to go there? Would they force me to?”

“They wouldn’t, no,” Aunt Petunia said, frowning. She looked Hydrangea up and down. “Why, what about it?”

“Just wanted to know,” Hydrangea said. Technically the truth. She could have told her that when she’d burnt the flowers, she’d felt calm, and that looking back on it she shouldn’t have felt that way. She should have been disgusted. Horrified. But she hadn’t.

She could have told her that when the skittering feeling had crept through her entire body, she’d felt free even when she’d felt the pain and disgust.

But what would telling her even do? Aunt Petunia couldn’t do anything about whatever messed up feelings magic put into her head. So she said it plainly.

“It freaks me out,” she said. “Feels unnatural.” Aunt Petunia shifted back a bit, so that she could see her face clearly. She’d never seen her aunt like this before. Her expression was one she wasn’t familiar with.

_I can’t read her._

“I thought that about your mother,” Aunt Petunia said. “And I’ve never regretted anything _more_. It’s a dangerous path to go down.”

“But it _does_ ,” Hydrangea insisted. “I burned a row of flowers without even harming the grass. You said my mum could control the wind. Every day I feel things crawling inside me, and they only stopped because I let them out. We shouldn’t be able to do things like that. There’s something wrong about it.”

“I know how it feels,” Aunt Petunia said. “Believe me, I know more than anyone. But as weird as unnatural it might seem, it’s a fact. And it’s a fact you have to live with.”

There was honesty in that statement. She kind of hated her aunt for it, because that meant that it was probably true.

“So there’s no way to change this?” Hydrangea asked. “No way that I can get rid of it? Because I want to get rid of it. I _really_ want to get rid of it. I don’t want to feel things crawling inside me anymore. It hurts when they do that.”

“I know. But as far as I’m aware, there isn’t much we can do about it. There’s… someone I can contact, if you’d like me to. We can see if removing magic is something that’s possible. But… are you sure about this?”

“Yeah.” Hydrangea nodded. “I think so.”

“I need more than a _think so_.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” she said. “I don’t know what’s _good_ about it. What do I really get if I keep it? I can burn things by accident. Maybe one day I accidentally control the wind. But then I keep getting these things crawling inside me. I still keep _hurting_. If there’s a way to make it stop hurting, then maybe, but otherwise, I _don’t_ want it.”

Aunt Petunia grimaced, then turned to face the fire. She patted Hydrangea’s shoulder, then straightened her back.

“I think,” she said, “I’m going to talk to my contact now.”

“Can I stay?” Hydrangea asked. Aunt Petunia sighed, interlacing her fingers. She didn’t turn to look at her.

“I think it’s better that you don’t watch,” she said. “This might be a little too…” She cringed. “Freakish.”

“Okay,” Hydrangea said quietly. She leaned in to hug her aunt. “Thanks for doing this.” Aunt Petunia hugged her back.

“You should probably go to bed,” she said.

“Sure,” Hydrangea replied. “I can do that. Is there anything else?” Aunt Petunia shook her aunt.

“Just… I’ll talk to you in the morning. Okay?”

“Okay,” she replied. And with that, she left.

She felt her aunt begin to move even as she got up off the couch. She’d tried to be subtle about it, but there was nothing subtle about the creaking of the couch as it was released from its burden.

She was at the doorway before she suddenly paused, aware of her silhouette against the wall, cast by flickering firelight. Red and orange, briefly yellow, before snapping back to red. Her aunt’s was there too, smaller, off to the right.

Hydrangea turned, and she saw her aunt standing by the fireplace, scratching at one of the bricks above the mantelpiece. She hid by the doorway, peeking her head out to the side as her aunt removed the brick from the wall. From within she pulled out a small bowl, filled with something which she couldn’t quite see from her position.

Aunt Petunia bent down, her hand going into the bowl and coming out full of some sort of dust. She moved her hand towards the fire, before suddenly pausing. Her hand hovered there, hesitant.

She sighed.

“Hydrangea,” she said.

Oh, she was _good_.

“Yeah,” Hydrangea said. “Sorry. I’m going now.” She turned and headed up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots. As her hand brushed the railing, she heard something like a rush of air coming from downstairs. She spun in place, her foot hovering over the next step.

She could see her aunt’s silhouette, still bent over, framed by flickering green light. Her eyes settled on the green, and her heart pounded.

The wrongness came back. Skittering legs digging through flesh, wings slapping against wet folds of skin—

She rushed up the stairs, aware of the sounds of the wood creaking beneath her bare feet. She didn’t look back, even as she heard two voices begin to talk.

⚘

The night came and went without any incident, but for the muffled conversation coming from downstairs. Hydrangea had tossed and turned, her dreams plagued by quiet whispers and flashes of pale green light.

There wouldn’t be any good dreams, not for some time.

When she woke, Shelley was sitting on the end of her bed, where the blanket didn’t quite reach because she’d managed to pull it sideways in her sleep. Hydrangea pushed up the covers, quietly slipping out of bed so that Shelley remained undisturbed. She wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten onto her bed, but she’d also seen him appear on the kitchen counter, Dudley’s forehead, and the front doorstep, so she wasn’t entirely surprised.

“Or is it magic?” she murmured as she watched Shelley pace the edge of the bed. “Can tortoises use magic? Is that how you move around?” Shelley didn’t even look in her direction. Hydrangea brushed it off – tortoises moved around using their legs, obviously. That she would even consider magic to be a possibility was proof enough that last night had shaken her a little too deeply.

But of course it had; finding out that _magic_ was real wasn’t something you were supposed to take lightly. Unless you lived in a children’s book, in which case you would brush it off as easily as finding out you’d gotten an A instead of an A+ on your math test.

The door swung open and shut, Hydrangea leaving Shelley behind to wander around in her room. She’d probably return to find him gone or sleeping on her air con. She took the stairs quickly – avoiding the creaky spots, of course – and dashed around the corner, only to bump into someone.

“Sorry,” she said automatically before even looking at who she’d run into. “I—” Hydrangea froze as she took in the man before her. He was tall, probably taller than Aunt Petunia, although she wasn’t really sure if he was _really_ that tall or if his weird-looking hat was making it seem like so. He had a long, flowing beard, all done up in strange knots with various shiny trinkets tied in. The man peered at her with twinkling eyes from behind a pair of round spectacles.

“Oh. Hello, Hydrangea,” he said, not unkindly. Hydrangea didn’t reply, instead taking a step back. She knew her exits – up the stairs, or to the front door. Her foot twitched towards the stairs as she kept her eyes trained on him. Going up the stairs would effectively trap her, but the front door was locked, and would therefore take time to open. Time which would be wasted when he closed the gap. She eyed his beard and amended the statement. _If_ he closed the gap. She didn’t even know who he _was_ , or what he was doing here.

_Relax, Hydrangea._

She shifted her stance, so that her shoulders weren’t brought all the way forward.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

“And how have you been, all these years?” he asked.

_All these years? What—_

No. No, this man knew her, somehow. He knew her name, he’d… met her as a baby, perhaps. But she didn’t know _him_.

“Where’s Aunt Petunia?” she asked, rather than answering him. The man looked back in the direction of the kitchen.

“Making breakfast, I believe,” he said. “But she may be awhile. She’s only just started, you see.”

“I’ll help her, then,” Hydrangea said. She raised an eyebrow, so that her expression resembled something she hoped was close to an accusatory glare. “If you’ll let me past, that is.”

She was expecting some sort of the resistance, but the man merely stepped to the side.

“As you wish,” he said, almost playfully. Hydrangea walked past him, watching him the entire way to the kitchen. She didn’t stop until she heard her aunt’s voice.

“Hydrangea?” she heard. Aunt Petunia sounded _really_ confused.

“HI Auntie,” she said, still looking at the man. “How are you this morning?”

“…Fine,” her aunt replied. Hydrangea glanced briefly at her aunt; she was at the stove, one hand clad in a mitten handling a frying pan with something sizzling on top. “How about you?”

“Brilliant,” Hydrangea said. “Just one question.” She not-so-subtly pointed at the man. “Who’s he?”

“Oh,” Aunt Petunia said. “That’s my contact.” Hydrangea broke her gaze on the man to stare at her aunt.

“ _He’s_ your contact?! I thought he’d broken into the house or something!”

“Keep your voice down,” Aunt Petunia said pointedly. “But yes. He’s my contact. He’s the headmaster of Hogwarts. The school I told you about.”

“The school for witches and wizards, you mean.”

“Yes. That’s Professor Dumbledore.” Hydrangea looked back at the man, ‘Dumbledore’, her perspective slightly changed. She could sort of see it now – he had the nice old teacher aura which she usually associated with her own teachers, though she really didn’t talk to them much at all. When he noticed her looking at him, he smiled pleasantly.

“I didn’t know you could have that as a surname,” she said, completely seriously.

“Neither did I, until heard about him,” Aunt Petunia said. “Don’t worry about him, he’s a friend.”

“You don’t use that word to talk about most of the people we know,” Hydrangea observed. Aunt Petunia shrugged.

“Maybe not a friend, but he’s on our side, in our corner, however you’d put it. You can trust him.”

“You told me not to trust people I’d never met,” Hydrangea said, “even those you and Uncle Vernon know.”

“I did, didn’t I?” her aunt murmured. “Well, I have to admit, those warnings don’t really apply here. Professor Dumbledore’s a good man. He always has the best intentions, I assure you.” Hydrangea was pretty sure that her aunt was leaving out some important information, but she didn’t comment on it. If she said that Dumbledore was trustworthy, then that was good enough for Hydrangea.

“Professor Dumbledore,” she called. The old man looked up at her, then walked towards them.

“Yes, my dear?” he said.

“Can I ask why you’re here?” she said. She ignored Aunt Petunia’s silent protests as she made vague hand gestures at her.

“Oh, of course,” Professor Dumbledore said, also ignoring Aunt Petunia’s silent screams of frustration. “I was told that you were just recently informed about the existence of magic.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“I was also told that you wished to have your magic removed from you.” Dumbledore paused, as if he expected her to interrupt. She shrugged back at him.

_Your move._

“I… wouldn’t recommend it, especially to someone as young as yourself.”

“Why?” she asked. “I don’t _like_ it. It hasn’t exactly done anything _good_ for me. Why _should_ I keep it?”

“Hydrangea- may I call you Hydrangea?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, then. Hydrangea, you are… young. Around seven.” She nodded. “Now, at your age, magic likely doesn’t seem too important or crucial.” She nodded again. It _was_ true. “However, as you grow older, I believe you’ll find the merits of magic to be… appealing.”

“Big words,” she said, even though she’d understood every word he’d said. “But what _are_ those merits, exactly?”

“Well, there is, of course, going to Hogwarts.”

Complicated family history there, if nothing else. She definitely didn’t need to get into that with _Professor Dumbledore_ , though.

“What’s so great about Hogwarts, anyway? What’s the difference between going to Hogwarts and any other school?” Apart from the magic, that was. But Dumbledore would know that, if he was really a headmaster.

“Well… you understand that it’s a boarding school?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t make it sound too—”

“Appealing.”

“Yes. But please, go on.”

“Well, perhaps you could tell me about your concerns, and then I could present my case.” Hydrangea shifted her weight to her left foot, staring into Dumbledore’s eyes. She saw the twinkle.

Smart. Oh well, no reason to not play along.

“Hogwarts is a magic school. People who go to Hogwarts will, for the most parts, study magic. So what about everything else? Math, English, Science? All of that stuff.”

“Not particularly necessary, if one were to seek a career in the magical world. Although, mathematics is particularly important in the study of a branch of magic called arithmancy.”

“That’s one branch? One class?”

“Well…” Dumbledore looked over to Aunt Petunia, who had her head down, working on breakfast. “Yes. One class.”

“Still doesn’t sound appealing, I won’t lie.”

“Well, if that will be a major problem, then I can’t exactly blame you for that. Is there anything else that you’d like to address?”

“That was most of the… surface stuff.”

“Alright. Well, perhaps I could ask you a question?” Hydrangea frowned. Aunt Petunia hadn’t reacted to the statement, but…

Dumbledore was a schemer. He was trustworthy, apparently, but he wanted something from this conversation. He wanted to convince her not to give up her magic. But what question did he have in mind that he thought could sway her?

Despite herself, Hydrangea took the bait.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Splendid.” Dumbledore smiled. “So, Hydrangea. Tell me, what is it that you enjoy doing?” Hydrangea blinked.

“What?”

“What do you enjoy doing? Hobbies. Things you like.” She shot a look outside, at the row of daffodils lining their lawn. The ashen corpses lying on their sides, scattered beside them.

“Gardening,” she muttered softly. “That’s pretty cool, I guess.”

“Oh, don’t let her fool you,” Aunt Petunia said from behind the stove. “She loves it.” Hydrangea glared at her aunt, but she continued cooking, completely unfazed.

“Gardening. Hm.” Dumbledore was looking out the window now, a perplexed look on his face. He raised a hand to scratch at his beard. “That’s something, at least.”

“What?”

“Hogwarts offers a class called Herbology. I imagine it’s something you’d be interested in.” Hydrangea tried not to sound too interested when she followed up.

“Herbology? What’s that? Does it have to do with—”

She shut her mouth.

Drat, she _was_ interested.

“Plants, yes. All sorts, particularly magical ones. It’s a compulsory course, up until your later years, and it can become quite stressful, I understand, once they start piling up on the large variety of species, but I’m sure—”

_Oh._

_Oh no._

Yeah, she was interested.

“It’s a single class,” she said. “I’m interested, I won’t lie, but it’s not exactly enough to convince me that it’s _worth it_.”

“I can understand that. But it’s enough to make you sit on the issue, isn’t it? You’re no longer certain.” She glared at him, because no, she _wasn’t_ certain. She wasn’t sure if she ever really had been, now. Even last night, when she’d hated and despised it more than ever, she couldn’t help but think of magic in _that_ way. The sparkly lights and fireworks, the dragons and the wondrous places she’d seen only in books and movies. She had, in a way, been holding out hope for that, no matter how sure she was that magic was wrong, dreadful, painful, and everything else. Hoping that the beautiful worlds she’d dreamt of and came up with in her head were real. So that she could go to those places, walk through them, talk with the people who lived there.

But even that was far out of reach.

Her issue with magic wasn’t that she didn’t see it as useful. That was just an angle she was using in this conversation, because she was trying to win in a battle of logic against a man who probably had a hundred years on her, and that was hopeless to begin with. He’d probably had this conversation with a thousand other Muggle-born children and their parents, too.

She wondered how much her aunt had told him. If she’d told him about the pain, the things which lived in her stomach, which writhed and kicked and tried to break out.

But of course, she would have told him. That was the reason he was here, after all. Because she wanted to get rid of her magic.

_Why don’t you want me to get rid of it?_

“She’s told you the _why_ , right?” she asked.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” he said.

_Yes, you do_ , she thought as she looked him in the eyes. _You’re no idiot. You’re probably the smartest person in the room, and you know it._

“The pain,” she said. “You know about it, don’t you?” Dumbledore smiled, not unkindly.

“Perhaps you should tell me about it.” And there was _his_ angle. She’d had her turn. She’d tried to go with the academic argument, he’d hit her with Herbology, and now he was hitting her again, while doing barely any work.

She hated that she admired him for it.

“Sometimes, I, um…” Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. “Sometimes, I can feel things. Inside me. And at first, you know, I thought that it was anxiety. Aunt Petunia said everyone got that. She called them butterflies.”

“But?” Dumbledore pressed.

“But mine aren’t,” she said. She could hear the tremble in her voice, the way it shook whenever she took a breath. “Butterflies, they’re supposed to just… feel like something’s fluttering. I guess. Like something’s twisting.”

“And yours aren’t like that.”

“No. They aren’t. Yesterday, I was- I was outside, a-and then they just started throwing themselves around. I could f-feel them everywhere, e-everywhere, and then they were in my throat and they were trying to climb up, and I just—”

Hydrangea stopped talking suddenly, her breaths loud, shuddering. She wasn’t sure why she’d stopped, until she saw Dumbledore. His arm was pointed at her, a thin rod of wood extended to her forehead.

_That’s his wand._

She was fairly sure that she should have been more concerned that Aunt Petunia’s ‘friend’ had used magic on her, but when she tried to follow that train of thought, it felt… blocked off. She doubled back, tried again, and…

And she couldn’t get mad. Couldn’t even express concern. She tried to scream, shout at him, but instead when she spoke, it come out calm, level, controlled.

“What did you just do to me?” she asked.

“Well, I—”

“Professor, I told you—” Aunt Petunia started.

“Petunia my dear, I assure you, it’s just a simple calming spell—”

“Calming spell? She looks like a zombie!”

“She was about to start screaming. She was panicking. If I hadn’t cast a spell, she would me crying right now.”

“So you cast magic on her instead? I didn’t ask you to come here so that you could do _spells_ on her, I asked you to come so that she wouldn’t do something she regretted!”

“And I still intend to do that. I’d still like to talk to her, Petunia.”

“You think I’m going to let you talk to my niece after that stunt you just pulled? Professor, I respect you a lot, but you—”

“Aunt Petunia,” Hydrangea cut in. “It’s fine. I want to talk to him.” Aunt Petunia stared back in bemusement.

“Hydrangea—”

“Really, it’s fine.” Aunt Petunia glared at Dumbledore but nodded back to her. “So. Professor Dumbledore. You cast a… calming spell on me, huh?”

“I did, yes,” he said.

“That’s funny,” she said. “Because I don’t feel calm at all.”

“The spell—”

“The _spell_ , Professor, is making my mind go in circles. I’m not calm, I’m _mad_ , but it won’t let me express that. I tried to scream earlier, and it stopped me. That doesn’t sound like a calming spell, that sounds like a spell to keep someone quiet.”

“I—”

“But we’re not here to talk about the spell. You’re here to tell me why I should keep my magic when it tries to hurt me _every day_.” Dumbledore shut up at that. He glanced back outside the window, for a moment. At ashen flowers, laying lifeless by their blooming counterparts.

“Very well, tell me about it, please.” Hydrangea nodded.

“I told you that I feel things inside me. Sometimes they move around, other times they just flatten themselves against the sides of… me, I guess.”

“Go on,” he said. He was turning back to her now, the twinkle in his eye surprisingly absent. He was interested, then.

“Sometimes they get worse. They stab at me from the inside, with their legs, I suppose. There’s so many of them that it manages to hurt instead of tingle, and then it gets worse. They start walking around in there, crawling over each other. Yesterday was the worst it’s ever been.”

“Bad enough that you burned a row of flowers.”

“Yeah. Bad enough. The got out of my stomach, somehow. They started crawling into my arms, my throat… when I burned the flowers, they all just… stopped, for a while. They came back again, but weaker, I guess.”

“They stopped when you burned the flowers?”

“Yeah. Just… gone all of a sudden. And I felt… content? I didn’t feel all _wrong_.”

“That’s…” Dumbledore paused, and for a moment nobody talked, as the man stared outside again, at the row of flowers. “Was this your first display of accidental magic?”

“Of what?”

“Accidental magic. Magical children tend to do magic unintentionally quite a lot before they’re given a focus, but few are so… extreme. Was this your first?”

“Yes.” Hydrangea looked over at Aunt Petunia, who was staring at Dumbledore. Breakfast was already finished, set out on the plates, but she wasn’t moving. “Professor, when my sister first started displaying accidental magic, she was around Hydrangea’s age. She never mentioned any kind of pain to me.”

“The magic isn’t always obvious,” he said. “Sometimes it can be as simple as waking up with your hair perfectly done, or being suspiciously good at something which you’re trying for the first time. I’m not sure if Hydrangea has displayed anything like that, but…”

“No.” Hydrangea shook her head. “Nothing like that.”

“Then I suppose that’s the issue. The magic inside you is constantly trying to escape, and most likely has been, for years. For some reason, your body has been restraining it, keeping it contained. It must have been building up, all this time. It managed to escape in two brief moments of vulnerability. When you burnt the flowers, and when they grew back. But why they would stay restrained, I’m not so sure—” Dumbledore stopped, his gaze fixed on Hydrangea’s face. He narrowed his eyes. “Ah,” he said. “That might be it.”

“What?” she asked. “Professor Dumbledore, what is it?”

“Yes. Professor, I think you should… probably share this with us.”

“Perhaps just you and me, Petunia,” he said.

“I don’t see why.”

“Because I’ve never heard of this kind of reaction to magic before,” he said. “And I’ve also never heard of another magical child who…” He made a motion with his hand. Hydrangea wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she saw her aunt’s eyes widen in understanding.

Hydrangea narrowed her eyes.

“Auntie, what’s he talking about?”

Aunt Petunia didn’t meet her eyes.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” she said. Hydrangea took a step back. She’d never said that to her before.

“Auntie—”

“Hydrangea, honey, I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore alone.”

“But—”

“I think she’s right, actually,” Dumbledore said. “We should finish what I came to talk to Hydrangea about. Then she can eat breakfast, and you and I can… discuss.”

“Well…” Aunt Petunia looked back at her. “Yes. That might be for the best.”

“Hydrangea,” Dumbledore said. “You remember when I told you that magical children will find a focus, so that their accidental magic will stop?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Normally, that would be their wand. Usually a magical child can only use a wand when they are past the age of eleven, and that makes this rather difficult. It’s a problem that doesn’t come up often. But there have been cases where magical children have been given wands, or other focuses, before the age of eleven. Usually it’s due to an excessive amount of accidental magic, though. Not… a sparingly little amount.”

“Would you… would you consider it?”

“In your case? Definitely. If you’re feeling pain because of your magic, then getting you a focus would be a top priority. I can try to file for one as soon as possible, but I can’t promise that the order won’t take a while. I’d rather not leverage my position, if I could help it.”

“And this will stop the pain?” she asked.

“It might. It’s the closest thing to a solution that I can give you right now.” Hydrangea looked to Aunt Petunia, then back at Dumbledore.

“Better than nothing, I guess.” Dumbledore nodded.

“But I still haven’t convinced you, have I?” he said. Hydrangea smiled.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“People are rarely satisfied by such a solution. You wanted your magic removed. This isn’t a reason to _not_ remove it. This is something which will keep the pain away, but it’s not a _reason_. It’ll keep the pain away, but you have no reason to keep it.”

“Yeah.” She looked back at her aunt. “It’s good, don’t get me wrong. I like a solution as much as anyone. But… magic feels like something that’s just going to cause further problems.”

“Then could I present to you… a final argument?” he asked. Hydrangea nodded.

“Sure.”

“Thank you. When… When you saw me aiming my wand at you, when I cast the calming spell. How did you feel?” Hydrangea frowned.

“What?”

“How did you feel?” he repeated. “I’m sure you remember.” He said it with a certainty that seeped through his words, until she could almost feel it tangibly in the air.

“You’ve used this one a couple of times, huh, Professor.”

“How did you feel, Hydrangea?” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. He wouldn’t break away from this. Both of them knew it.

So she thought about it. Pulled it back from her memories. The rising fear. The panic. The lack of ‘calm.’

“Powerless,” she said. “I felt powerless.” She looked at him. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” Dumbledore shook his head.

“It’s the first time I’ve tried this,” he admitted. “I’m not scheming, Hydrangea. I’m only asking.”

“You’re asking questions you already know the answer to.”

“I suppose I do. But that isn’t the point, here. I’d like to tell you something, actually. With your aunt’s permission, of course, but—”

“Just do it,” Aunt Petunia said from behind him. “This pretense is ridiculous.” Dumbledore raised an eyebrow but didn’t change course. That was enough to spur him on, apparently.

“Do you know how you got that scar?” he asked. Hydrangea raised a hand, tracing the lines with her index finger.

“Car crash.” She looked over to her aunt, to see her looking away. Ah.

_Just how many times have you lied to me?_

“But that isn’t true, is it?” she asked. Dumbledore shook his head. She closed her eyes, hands clenching into fists. “Dammit, Aunt Petunia.”

“Please. It isn’t her fault,” Dumbledore said. “I told her to hide this from you.” Hydrangea opened her eyes, to stare the man in the face.

“You did?” she whispered. With her finger, she traced the line all the way to her eye. Back down again, to the left, trailing all the way down her neck.

“Yes. I told her that telling you would merely destroy your childhood. But I suppose it already has been, if the pain you’re telling me about is real.”

“Of course it’s real.”

“Then I’ll get straight to the point. On the bright side, Petunia, we won’t have to talk after this.”

“I suppose,” her aunt said quietly.

“Hydrangea.” Dumbledore bent down, so that his eyes were level with hers. “You may want to sit down.”

“I think I’ll stand,” she said. “Just say it.”

“Very well. Hydrangea, you and your parents… were never in any car accident. Your parents were killed by a dark wizard. The scar… was given to you by the same man.”

Hydrangea took a step back. Something poked at the inside of her stomach.

“I don’t understand,” she said. Another leg, stabbing into her side. Wings flattened against the lining of her stomach.

“There was a war. Your parents were important enough to draw the ire of the dark lord on the opposing side. He… made a personal visit to their home. Your home.”

Hydrangea shook her head as she clutched at her stomach. Skittering legs, vast and numerous, extended outwards, reaching to the outside.

“He attacked your parents, yes. But not because they were the main threat. He was there for you. When they got in the way, he… dispatched them.” Hydrangea swallowed loudly.

“And me?”

“He tried. He used the same curse; the Killing Curse. But when he aimed it at you, it did something it’s never done before. It rebounded and hit him instead.”

“The curse backfired?”

“Yes. But it marked you.”

Legs upon legs upon bulky bodies and blooming wings, pressing up against her sides—

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” she said. “You’re not exactly making me _want_ to keep magic.”

“No. But I will tell you this. When that Killing Curse rebounded, it should have killed him, the man who fired it. But it also should have killed you, and it didn’t.”

She wondered if Dumbledore often went around casually talking about death in front of young children, but he was trying to win an argument, and he was succeeding.

“He’s still alive, then.”

“Almost definitely. And he and his followers may very well blame you for his downfall.” Hydrangea was pacing now, back and forth, back and forth. She shook her head.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

“Unfortunately, I am.”

“You want me to keep my magic because some sore loser who may or may not be dead wants to get revenge on a person who was a baby.”

“No, I want you to keep your magic because _learning_ magic will allow you to defend yourself when the time comes.”

“What time?” She turned to face him, her hands still clenching. “What time, Professor? You’re giving me something… something which might not even happen.”

“And you burning the daffodils might not have happened. This? This has basis.”

“I didn’t even know that magic was _real_ until last night. Now you’re telling me that someone wants to kill me. This is moving too fast. When are they coming? When are they- when are they coming for me?”

The sick feeling in her stomach was beginning to fade, but this time, she felt no contentment. Just the simmering in the background, legs and wings tearing at each other within herself, slowly quieting down. When she looked at Dumbledore, he looked… worried.

“Hydrangea,” he said.

“What?” She looked around. “’What?”

“Please, I understand how you must be feeling right now. But you can’t let the anger—”

“Professor, I don’t even know what you’re _talking_ about,” she said. “I… this is a lot for me to process. I’m willing to do that, but you just keep piling it on. I…”

“I’ve convinced you then?” Dumbledore said. No visible trace of a smile was on his face. Hydrangea scowled.

She _hated_ people like him for doing things like this. Using their words to twist you into doing what they wanted, without having to tell a single lie. Dumbledore had stood there and fired fact after fact at her, even when she was already moving away from her initial decision to be rid of her magic. He’d done his best to destroy the illusion she’d had of a regular childhood, telling her of men and women who would, one day, come to kill her, do away with her.

Had he done this before? Was that why he looked so calm, standing there before her?

And the worst part of it all? No matter how much she hated him, no matter how much she wanted to scream at him, yell, call him names… it would be unreasonable. Because the man had just old her information which would probably save her life further down the line. Because people wanted to kill her.

_God. I’m only seven._

And then the question: was God even real? She’d been putting stock into a figure who… might not even exist. She’d heard the other kids at school talking about it, but even then, she’d held onto hope, belief, because she’d thought that everything would be alright if she kept believing.

She looked Dumbledore in the eye, injecting as much fire into her gaze as she could muster.

_Do you know what you’ve just done?_

_Do you know that you just destroyed me? Do you, great Professor?_

If Dumbledore had any regrets, he didn’t show them. He took a step back, nodding to Aunt Petunia.

“I’ll see about getting Hydrangea that focus,” he said. “I can’t promise that the authorization will be completed quickly, but I’ll send an owl as soon as I can. Or I’ll just visit you myself, whichever you prefer.”

Hydrangea wondered if she should tell Dumbledore that she’d rather not see him again, after what he’d done this morning. But in the end, she looked to Aunt Petunia.

“A visit would work better,” her aunt said. “But maybe just you and me, next time.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said, eyeing Hydrangea. “That would be fine. I’ll… be along soon. A week or so, perhaps.”

“Professor,” Hydrangea said. “What’s the chance you could get me some… reading material, the next time you visit?”

“What are you looking for, exactly?”

“Whatever you can provide. I just got told that people are going to come for me. If you actually want me to survive, then you owe me that much.” Dumbledore looked troubled, but he gave her a firm nod.

“I’ll see to it, then. Anything else?” Hydrangea shook her head. “Very well. I’ll take my leave then. Petunia.” He drew his wand out of his robes, nodding to Hydrangea. “It was good seeing you.”

_I wish I could say the same._

With that, Dumbledore swirled into nothingness, leaving the room barren of his presence. Aunt Petunia looked at Hydrangea with a worried expression.

“Are you alright?” she asked. Hydrangea shrugged.

“I hate him,” she said. Her aunt nodded.

“I can sympathize with that.” Hydrangea smiled.

“So, what do we do, then? Do we just wait until he comes back?”

“Something like that.” Aunt Petunia was carrying the plates over, setting them at the table. “Was there anything you wanted to ask? While he’s gone, I mean.”

“Yeah. What else have you had to lie to me about?” she asked. Aunt Petunia froze.

“Hydrangea…”

“I know. I know why you had to do it. But… what else?” Aunt Petunia drummed her fingers on the table, before walking over next to her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve… lost track, honestly. But I love you. I love you like you were my own daughter. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Hydrangea hugged her aunt, pulling her in tight. “But also, maybe we can talk again, about this.”

“Sure. Would tonight work for you?”

“Tonight works.” Hydrangea pulled away from the hug. “I’m gonna eat.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

When Hydrangea sat herself at the table, the cutlery felt odd in her hands. She fiddled with them, shuffling them around, before setting them down on the table.

The urge to do something with her hands remained. But the urge felt wrong, as wrong as it had when the things had crawled out of her stomach and up her throat.

But there was no skittering. Nothing crawled around in her stomach, no legs stabbing into her from the inside out. But she wouldn’t feel _right_ for some time. Not after that. Not after the things she’d found out today.

_People want to kill me._

She gripped the table, her breaths long and heavy.

When she tried to calm down, she only felt the wrongness growing inside her. A festering wound, a parasite waiting to take control.

_So innocent, that feeling. The feeling that there is nothing more deeply complex and fundamental to the world than human sciences._

_So much, that I wish to have it again._


	4. Seed 0.3 - Devil's Ivy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's late. I apologize for that, as well as the shorter length. Either I'll give myself a week, or keep to the fortnightly schedule but push it back a week.
> 
> This would have been longer, but well, I found a point which I thought good enough to cut off on.
> 
> I'm considering either shifting to first-person or present-tense once the introductory arc is done, so that I can play more to my strengths. If y'all could let me know what you think of that, that'd be great.
> 
> Also, I, like, don't own Harry Potter. Because that would be crazy.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Seed 0.3 – Devil’s Ivy**

Professor Dumbledore returned not the next day, but the day after that, arriving with his arms supporting a stack of thick books, placed promptly on the dining table. Hydrangea had asked the man about the authorization of her receiving a focus early but had been told to be patient.

Funny that he said that, when all of her patience had run out two days ago.

And so Professor Dumbledore took his leave again, vanishing from the living room and leaving Hydrangea the largest stack of reading material she’d ever seen. Although she didn’t particularly like the man, she had to admit that he had been generous on his end.

She tore through _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ within a week, which she would have considered slow for her, if not for the sheer amount of information in the book. Of course, there were odd things she found which didn’t seem to line up. Like why Flobberworm mucus was included in the book, when it wasn’t a herb or fungi. The possible answers were somewhere on a scale between ‘it was an accident’ and ‘this book isn’t about herbs or fungi, it’s about potion ingredients’.

Hydrangea spent almost every day after school that way, reading through books which somehow, with their repetitive phrasing and lack of enthusiasm managed to make _magic_ sound bland. She would spend hours poring over those books, because no matter how boring they were, they provided knowledge, information. So that if Dumbledore didn’t manage to get her stupid focus to her before the end of the century, she’d have _some_ idea of what to do.

But breaks were mandatory, at her own suggestion. She could only bear to cram down knowledge for so long before her brain would explode. Breaks usually took the form of going out into the garden and watering the plants, as she did her best to ignore the skittering blades clashing within her. Melanie had stopped by a few times, on her daily walks. Their conversations never lasted long, but Hydrangea appreciated them, for what little they did. In most cases, anyway. This time, Melanie had been standing by her fence for something over five minutes. Not that she minded – the magic had left her alone, today.

“I don’t get my cousins, to tell you the truth.”

“Well, I don’t get Dudley. You’re not the only one.”

“Right, a seven-year-old is the only person who understands me. My life is a joke.” Melanie was hanging a little over the fence, as Hydrangea gently tipped the watering can over the daffodils.

“If your life is a joke, I don’t know what mine is,” Hydrangea said. “Last night, my aunt and uncle were fighting over a grapefruit.”

“Grapefruits are cool. Of course they’d fight over one.”

“I…” Hydrangea shook her head, moving onto the next flower. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that.”

“Maybe I’m exaggerating. But seriously, they’re great.”

“I know. I stole it and ate it myself.”

“Ha.” Melanie peered over to look at the daffodils. “And how are your flowers going? They look taller than they did before.”

“Maybe because they grow.”

“Ow. Where do you get all this from? Wait, don’t tell me. It’s television, isn’t it? Television is rotting your brain.”

“I’m the only one whose brain _hasn’t_ been rotten by television. I just read a lot.”

“Not an excuse. You can shoot back faster than any of my cousins, and believe me, that’s saying something.” Hydrangea frowned.

“Not sure how to feel that I’m compared to your cousins.”

“They aren’t that bad.” When Hydrangea raised an eyebrow, Melanie snorted and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay. Some of them are that bad. But, like, some of them are cool. They don’t act like idiots, is what I mean.”

“Less so than yourself, you mean.”

“See? That!” Melanie pointed at her, then quickly lower her hand, as if she’d acted on impulse. “You don’t get that from just _reading_.”

“You would think so, but no. If you really think my mind got rotted, then books did it, not TV. I don’t think that’s possible, though.”

“Anything can rot your brain, if you take in too much of it.”

“Point. But to answer your actual question, the flowers are doing fine. Aunt Petunia wants to plant more, but I think I’ve got my hands full with these.”

“A single row? You know you can do more.”

“I could,” Hydrangea admitted. “But I also have a summer reading list.” The way that Melanie smiled when she said that did nothing to put her at ease.

“Summer reading list. Oh, man. You’re not just a garden nerd. You’re a… you’re an actual book nerd. I love it.”

“I thought you already knew that. I make frequent references to my books every time we have a conversation.”

“But you have a _summer reading list_.” Melanie looked like she was trying extremely hard not to laugh. “I don’t know anyone else who has one. You’re the first.”

“Plenty of kids have reading lists. Some of the other kids at school do.”

“And how long are theirs?”

“Never asked. Felt unnecessary.”

“You don’t, like, compare notes with them? Talk it out? Recommend books to each other? I know some of the people I go to school with did that.” Hydrangea shook her head.

“No, never have. We keep to ourselves.”

“I’ve never heard of kids keeping to themselves. Usually you’re all so social.”

“No one’s ever called me social and meant it.” Hydrangea walked along, so the sprinkling water moved on. “Dudley did once, and that was supposed to be a joke.”

“Supposed to be?”

“Yeah.” Hydrangea tilted the watering can up, so that it wasn’t dripping. “It ended up being more like a barb.”

“Ouch.”

“He didn’t mean anything of it. Just happened to be at the wrong time, and he didn’t notice that anything was off.”

“Not too observant, is he?” Hydrangea smiled.

“No, not really. But he means well.”

“Unfortunately, most people do.” Melanie narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t mean that they’re always right.”

“Usually it’s the inverse. They think they’re right, but they’re not, and that applies to all of us. Me, you. My aunt and uncle. Dudley.”

“You’re philosophical, for a seven-year-old.”

“You mean that I’m not an idiot. Anyone could see it – it’s the moral of half the cartoon movies we watch.” Melanie frowned.

“I mean, generally presented as something else. But no, you’re not wrong. It is, isn’t it? They-thought-they-were-right-and-so-did-you. They-were-the-hero-of-their-own-story. It’s always something irritatingly poetic like that.”

“It stopped being poetic after the fifth time I saw it. It’s not a bad message, but most kids don’t even get it. They can’t even see what it’s trying to say.”

“What’s to say that the filmmakers are even trying to say what you think they are?” Melanie pointed out. “They make a movie, and yeah, maybe it has a message. But who’s to say that when people start reading into the dialogue and the tiny details, they’re actually seeing what the people who made that film _wanted_ them to see?”

“That’s…” Hydrangea shrugged. “It makes sense. Maybe some of those messages are accidental, and we’re just… playing them up, making them seem more important than they are.”

“They could’ve been written in there subconsciously. I… I don’t know. I don’t know enough about filmmaking to understand the breadth and depth of what it takes to make a movie. I’ve heard people being disappointed about the way people interpreted their stories. You know, like how people misinterpret art.”

“There’s not really a proper way to interpret anything, is there?”

“I don’t think so, no.” Melanie smiled. “Guess we’re all idiots for assuming things, then.”

And that had been the end of that conversation. Hydrangea hadn’t talked to Melanie for a week since last seeing her, and not for lack of trying to find her. The older girl seemed to have completely disappeared after she’d turned the corner at the end of Privet Drive. Hydrangea hadn’t exactly walked over to her house and knocked on her front door, but she’d started staying outside more often, for longer periods. Seeing if she could catch a glimpse of Melanie passing by.

The week came and went, and by then Hydrangea had stopped her extended trips outside. She went back to the stack of books Dumbledore had left her, concluding that if something was going on with Melanie, then it wasn’t her problem. Besides, magical theory was more interesting than thinking up insane theories as to why the older girl had stopped going on her usual walks. Even if the text itself was terrible boring, the information there was enough for her brain to go to work.

The next time Dumbledore showed up, exactly ten days after Melanie had mysteriously vanished off the face of the earth, Hydrangea still had yet to get through the books he’d left her. She hadn’t even gotten halfway through, which she was somewhat embarrassed by. Professor Dumbledore, of course, wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

“They’re terribly written, but full of useful information. If you had finished every single one of those books in just a few weeks, I would have been most impressed.”

“I don’t usually read so slowly.”

“I doubt that you’re reading slowly,” Dumbledore said, leaning back in his chair. “They’re simply _that_ long. Have you ever stopped while reading, to see how far into the book you are? Page wise, that is.”

“Of course.” Hydrangea had deigned to remain on the couch – the chair he sat in had, over the past few visits, become undoubtedly _his_. She hadn’t seen Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon sit in that chair for a while now. Even Dudley avoided it.

“And what have you noticed?” he asked.

“What I’ve noticed happens with every other book I read. The page numbers go up. When I hold it up to look at the pages, my place moves from left to right. Like with any other book.”

“But did you ever hold the book up in the air after a good hour of reading, and notice that your place had not shifted in the slightest?” Hydrangea froze, noticing the self-assured smile on Dumbledore’s face. Not unkind, but also infuriatingly pleased.

“You’re not joking,” she said, seeking confirming.

“Of course not. Magic has its uses, no matter how mundane.”

“You just casually use magic to increase the capacity of books?”

“And to travel, cook, do our chores. Magic is the universe’s greatest assistant in almost everything, Hydrangea. Though never in the field of the human mind. That is for us, and for us alone.”

“Only weeks ago, you used magic to alter my state of mind,” Hydrangea said coldly. “Us and us alone?”

“Magic wasn’t the assistant in that case. It was the tool.”

“And lay no blame upon the tool wielded in the hand of the one who does the deed. Is that what you’re saying? Because as far as these books seem to say, magic is just as alive as you or me.”

“Certain parts of it, yes, Hydrangea. But some more so than others. Magic is as fluid a being as water. It is of many branches, many regions. To generalize them would be a mistake.”

Dear God, he sounded cocky to her, even when he was making sense. Hydrangea sent a silent prayer to the kingdom above, that she would manage to get over it before she screamed at his face.

“Speaking of the fluidity of magic,” she said, “about my focus.” Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, looking annoyed for the first time since she’d met him, but Hydrangea held up her hand. “I know, I know. Patience. But I was curious about what other focuses have been used in the past.”

“Ah.” Dumbledore leaned forward, as if he was suddenly interested in the conversation they’d been having for the past fifteen minutes. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask about this sooner.”

“You didn’t stick around too long last time. I forgot about it.”

“My apologies then.” Dumbledore adjusted his glasses, still smiling, though when she looked closer, she could see the twinkle in his eyes. And of course it would be now that she saw it – why would it not be? Here was a man who was famed throughout the entire magical world, as far as the histories claimed, known for his progression in various fields of magical research. He would thrive on magical theory, no matter how strange or obscure.

“The short answer to that question, Hydrangea, is that your focus could be just about anything. But it is always something which represents _you_. Completely and utterly.”

“But a wand is a kind of focus,” she said. “Do those represent people so accurately?”

“Different woods, lengths and cores, each wand different, unique. Representative of different people. I can tell you that yes, they do indeed. However, since a person will not be allowed a wand until they turn eleven, other focuses began to be used.”

“Such as?”

“Again, it could be anything, as long as that thing represents who you are. I have, however, seen some truly bizarre ones. A necklace of great import, in the case of a young boy I knew, some time ago. With another, it was a simple ring. Trinkets like these I often saw, until I thought it to be an established pattern. I was forced to amend this, however, once I came across a man whose focus was his pet dog.”

Hydrangea frowned.

“How does that even work?” she asked.

“The man was kind enough to give me a short demonstration. You see, each focus has its benefits, but also its flaws. The man’s dog was his focus, and so it did what it should – focus his magic. I watched that dog breathe fire from its mouth, scale large walls in mere second, slow its descent towards the ground. But I have no doubt that if I had attacked the man, not his dog, he would not have been able to do anything to stop me.”

“So it’ll give me limitations, no matter what it ends up being.”

“All of them do. That necklace? It allowed the boy to protect himself and others quite well, but he would never strike back. The ring was reliable, but it could not hold much power. Once I came upon a girl whose focus was a deadly knife. She dreamed of being a healer, Hydrangea.”

“I’m guessing that never happened,” she said, hoping to mask the rising horror she felt within her.

“Indeed. When I next saw her, she was working as one of our Aurors. Our equivalent of your police force, you could call them.”

“Huh.” Hydrangea hugged herself, pointedly avoiding Professor Dumbledore’s gaze.

“It’s normal to be afraid,” he said, evidently noticing her discomfort. “We all struggle to face the parts of ourselves we’d rather pretend weren’t there.”

“And if I can’t handle what I find out about myself?” she asked.

“Then I doubt that when the moment comes, you will have to handle it alone.” Kind words, on their own. She could imagine that the man even meant what he said, despite her opinions of him. Perhaps that was the most terrifying part of it all – that she could believe a kindly old man word for word, and still feel that creeping doubt rising within her.

“How did they deal with it?” she asked. “The other people you knew?” Dumbledore didn’t answer for some time. There was a reluctance, there. Some unconscious effort to shield her from the truth. But whatever it was, it didn’t take long for him to break through.

“Some of them never truly did,” he said. “They made brave faces, but I doubt any of them ever stopped feeling that uncertainty which taints us all.”

“I was expecting you to try to shield me,” Hydrangea said, somewhat confused.

“I believe,” Dumbledore said, smiling slightly, “that I would only be inviting future resentment.” He left in the midst of Hydrangea’s thoughtful silence, the lights rattling as the currents of magic carried him away from her living room.

She barely understood Dumbledore, and she doubted that she ever would. Her opinion of the man had changed dramatically with every meeting, but perhaps that was only natural. It would be so with every person, Dumbledore no different, although he was, perhaps, more drastically changed in her eyes than others had been on second meetings. Melanie had been apologetic, Aunt Marge had been even worse than the first time, and Dumbledore… Dumbledore had been completely consistent, and that spoke volumes more than any other person.

Future resentment, he’s said.

“What’s your game, then?” Hydrangea murmured to herself. “What do you want, Professor Dumbledore?” She clenched her fingers, then unclenched them just as quickly. There was no use in mulling over the man, when she knew that the only thing it would bring her would be a major headache.

It was silent at the table that night, with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon far too exhausted to make any semblance of small talk, and Dudley more concerned with eating than finding out what had being going on with Hydrangea while he’d been playing video games in his room for the better part of the day.

Somehow, Hydrangea found comfort in the not-quite-silence, filled by the occasional scrape of cutlery on plate, or Aunt Petunia’s quiet chewing. The silence had never been something she’d enjoyed, and while she didn’t exactly want to talk, the noise filled in enough for her to be content. She helped with the dishes after she was done, and after a quick series of ‘good night’s, she was in her bedroom upstairs, laying back on her bed.

It was there, as she stared up through the ceiling at a billowing blanket of glimmering stars, that she felt the first leg pressing onto the inside of her foot. A reminder, perhaps, of the existence of the magic inside her.

“I don’t know why you keep doing this,” Hydrangea said, barely more than a whisper. “It’s never made sense to me, that.”

The legs scuttled upwards, from her foot to her calf, to her knee. Not growing, not spreading. Just… _moving_.

“A few weeks ago, I thought you were a sickness. But that’s not true at all, is it? You’re a part of me, I guess. Just a part which I really hate.”

The scuttling paused for a moment, as if contemplating something. Then it continued upwards, and Hydrangea felt the wings scraping against the roof of her belly.

“Is the pain intentional?” she asked, knowing that she would receive no answer. “Or is it something else entirely? Maybe you don’t even know how much you hurt me. I don’t know, though. I barely understand any of this as it is.”

Through her ribcage, spectral legs traipsing across her spine. No chills here, but still the pain remained.

“The books say you’re alive,” she said. “Professor Dumbledore says that too. I don’t really understand it, to tell you the truth, but I don’t understand much. I doubt anyone understands anything, though. I thought I understood how the world worked, even though I’m only seven years old. I’ll be eight soon, but that… that doesn’t matter. Everything’s different now. Because now every time look at something, I have to ask myself if there’s magic involved.” She jolted as she felt it reach her shoulders. “I guess it was, at least with you.”

Hydrangea felt the legs digging into her throat, and this time, she did not fight the thing crawling up to exit her mouth. Her fingers clamped the sides of her bed, as she waited for the thing to rip itself out of her throat, prying open her lips with insectile feet serrated by blooming thorns.

But when she opened her mouth to let it out, she felt nothing. It did not push itself out, scrambling into the outside world, leaving her sickly body behind. The magic was gone, wrested away from her. Hydrangea’s throat has gone dry, her fingers still clenching the edges of her bed as she waited, waited, for _something_.

_Because nothing’s ever that easy_ , she thought. _Because you didn’t just leave. You took something with you._

It was then that she noticed it – the way that her eyes were beginning to cloud over with a pale green tint. Hydrangea blinked once, then twice.

Gone was the tint.

In its wake was the pillar.

It was a thing very much alive in every manner of the word. Moving, thrashing, pulsating as leafy tendrils collapsed and collided, strung together and wrapped around each other. A living pillar of writhing creepers sprouting from her chest and reaching towards her ceiling. The pillar did not grow in mass – branches were shifted around, intertwining together for support, as to thin the pillar and give it more reach. With every passing second the pillar was rearranging itself, piling its tendrils higher and higher so that it would eventually come to touch the ceiling.

She’d thought herself afraid of her magic. She’d hated it, despised it, blamed it for all it had done. And yet, as she stared at this pile of shifting leaves, Hydrangea felt only wonder. Wonder, for what could have been. Wonder, for what would follow.

Her eyes followed as the pillar, this towering mass of devil’s ivy, touched the ceiling with the very tip of one of its tendrils. The mass rocketed upwards, spiralling around the knotted cord at the base of the creeper, spreading out across the ceiling. The ivy began to twist, into eight long appendages, each going only a small distance before they drooped towards the ground, and more ivy travelled along them to swivel around and continue from the created joint. In the center of the limbs lay the enormous knot, writhing and pulsing as leaves upon leaved smothered it like a mummy in bandages.

“Hi,” Hydrangea said to the leafy spider. “I reckon it’s time we talk, huh?”


	5. Seed 0.4 - Devil's Grasp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a timeskip in this chapter. For clarification please read the notes after the chapter.  
> Otherwise, please enjoy, and let me know your thoughts.  
> I, like, don't own Harry Potter, and stuff.

Although the body of the spider did not move, Hydrangea was faintly aware of the eight flowers now blooming from its face. Each one tilted downwards, towards her. One of the flowers slowly closed and opened, as if it was blinking.

She wasn’t sure what this was – whether it was agreement, or approval, or perhaps a refusal to communicate, to stoop down to her level. She was attempting to communicate with a being so unworldly that she barely understood what it even was. This, the curiosity, the wonder, the _pull_. She’d never felt it before, and yet when she looked upon the spider and it looked upon her, it was all she could focus on. Reading the books, talking with Dumbledore – some of it had been curiosity, but for the most part, it had been knowledge for the sake of knowledge. For academic purposes, because she knew that eventually, she would have to go this school. Hogwarts. Because… because she knew that there were people who would kill her without a second thought, and every scrap of knowledge was another chance of survival.

Understanding herself, understanding her magic, was always going to have been a crucial part of that. But this… not this.

_No. This is for me._

“It’s crazy, you know?” she said. “Magic being real blew my mind. But I’ve never really _seen_ it in myself. I burned a row of flowers – or maybe you did, I don’t know – but I didn’t _see_ it happen, you know? I’ve seen Dumbledore teleporting, and travelling through the fireplace. But I was on the sidelines then. And he’s used it on me, I guess, but like I said, it… it wasn’t _me_ doing it.” The spider crawled slowly along the ceiling, as if spurred on by her words. Hydrangea continued, in hope of it being encouraged further. “You, though,” she tried. “You’re my magic, aren’t you? You’re the… the purest embodiment of it which exists. You weren’t there before, but now you’re just… out and about. The last time you tried, I… I rejected you. Is that why?”

The spider paused, flowers drooping down to observe her. The eight flowers blinked simultaneously, perhaps in confirmation.

“Great.” Hydrangea shifted, so that she could keep her eyes on the spider as it crawled further away. “That’s good to know, really. I was a little scared that I was wrong. Don’t want to offend you, or anything like that.”

But that was another question. The question of ‘how intelligent is it?’ It had exited her body, proceeded to crawl around on her ceiling in the form of a spider, and so far, reacted to her words only by blinking its… flowers. That was hardly clear evidence of any intelligence within it. The only thing possibly suggesting that the thing could even _think_ was it responding to her… which it might not have been doing at all.

The spider was unspooling its limbs now, though the larger body remained attached to the ceiling. Hydrangea narrowed her eyes as the drapes of ivy began to intertwine, taking the forms of long, wooden rods, bending in unnatural angles.

_Not rods_ , she realized. _Letters._

It was a gradual process, painstaking even, but by the end of it, the question of the being’s intelligence had been answered.

HELLO HYDRANGEA POTTER.

All capitalized, in cartoonish, blocky letters, framed by the foliage adorning every inch of every limb. Well, at least she’d gotten another answer, although it was to a question she hadn’t had in the first place.

_The embodiment of my magic is an artist, I guess_.

Why did everything have to be so much more complicated than it needed to be?

“Hey,” she said. “What… what should I call you?”

The letters began to shift, once again undergoing the long process of unravelling themselves and creating new frames to support themselves.

I BEAR NO TITLE.

Because _that_ wasn’t ominous at all.

“No title, huh? Nothing I can call you then?”

The leaves shuffled around, sliding against each other like a thousand slithering serpents in a pit, audibly brushing against each other.

NO TITLES HYDRANGEA POTTER.

“Alright. And… and who are you, exactly?” She was _pretty_ sure, but it wouldn’t do any harm to confirm her suspicions.

I AM WHO I AM HYDRANGEA POTTER.

“Way to state the obvious. I’ll try again – _what_ are you?”

This time, there was some level of hesitation. Almost reluctance. The leaves began to shift, then paused, twitched, as if deliberating. It only lasted for a moment, but it was confirmation. Of whether this was just an intelligent being, or something more, something _sentient_. Able to feel and perceive feelings, emotions. Or hesitation. To have doubts.

To be able to lie.

She watched as the leaves spun into words, faster this time. Making up for the moments it had lost.

I AM THAT WHICH YOU WOULD HIDE.

Ah.

Hydrangea breathed out, watching the words unravel and reassemble into something new.

I AM YOU WITHOUT THE BLANKET OF LIES.

“What lies?” Hydrangea asked. She tried not to think of what hidden metaphor was in the embodiment of her magic being an escaped devil’s ivy. “I don’t usually lie intentionally, if you’re suggesting something like that.”

YOU ARE AN HONEST ONE.

The leaves collapsed, reforming into new words. Hydrangea felt her heart rising to her throat.

TO EVERYONE BUT YOURSELF HYDRANGEA POTTER.

“And what would that be?” she asked, aware of how panicked she sounded. “The lies I tell myself?”

YOU WOULD BLAME ME BUT IT IS YOU WHO YOU HATE.

YOU WOULD HURT AND HURT AND HURT AND YET WOULD NOT SPEAK.

YOU WOULD BE SCARED OF ME BUT YOU WERE MORE AFRAID OF YOURSELF.

“Those…” She shook her head. “Those aren’t truths. Not to me.”

NEVER TO YOURSELF BUT ALWAYS TO THE WORLD.

“You’re messing with me.” Hydrangea put her hand on her heart, and felt it thudding rapidly against her chest. “You… you’re the one—”

But the leaves were already rearranging into more words, more hurtful than the last.

HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW YOURSELF HYDRANGEA POTTER?

Hydrangea sat up; her fists clenched as the vines began to shift again.

“What are you trying to get at?” she asked, aware that at some point, she had started glaring. “I know myself.” The leaves paused amidst their shifting, then began to backtrack, rearranging into a different sentence than the one that had been initially planned.

EVIDENTLY NOT WELL ENOUGH.

Hydrangea opened her mouth, but no words came out. She stared at the words of shifting leaves, as the creature formed a horizontal platform underneath it, as if emphasizing the statement. Was it not enough, that this being had tormented her since she could remember?

_Now you strip me of my armor and bare me to the world._

She wondered if her gaze was carrying across the raw emotion she felt – or perhaps it could feel it anyway, from its connection to her.

“How well do you know me?” she asked breathlessly. The leaves paused before beginning to rearrange themselves.

ENOUGH TO KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING.

Hydrangea frowned.

“You—”

WE ARE ONE AND THE SAME.

YOU SIMPLY DO NOT REALIZE THIS YET.

EVERY TIME YOU START ANOTHER TRAIN OF THOUGHT I WILL BE THERE RIGHT BESIDE YOU TO OBSERVE THE CONTENTS OF THE CARRIAGES.

“You… you can see through me that well?” she murmured. When the creature replied, it almost seemed smug.

I WATCHED THAT QUESTION FORM IN YOUR HEAD.

_It knows me. It knows everything about me._

Hydrangea eyed it from its position on the ceiling.

_It knows that I’m thinking about it, too. Doesn’t it?_

The creature didn’t seem to react, but the lack of movement was enough to tell her. Hydrangea sighed.

“Reading my thoughts even now?” she asked.

ALWAYS.

“That’s utterly disturbing,” she deadpanned.

I KNOW HOW IT FEELS.

“Oh yeah.” She tilted her head. “I guess you would, huh.” Another stretch of silence from the plant. It hadn’t ever been very loud in its movements to begin with, but it didn’t even look like it was preparing to move again.

_Is the conversation over?_

The leaves stirred.

NOT JUST YET.

Hydrangea blinked as they moved again.

YOU STILL HAVE QUESTIONS.

“Questions?” Hydrangea frowned. “I… huh.” She did, somewhat. A few half-formed thoughts, not quite finished, still working at the back of her mind. But then again, there was…

There was _that._ That would do.

“Why did you hurt me?” she asked, hugging herself. “If you could feel it too, why… would you do that?”

HURTING YOU WAS NOT MY INTENTION.

IT WAS AN UNFORESEEN SIDE EFFECT OF ME ATTEMPTING TO REPAIR YOUR WOUNDS.

Hydrangea absentmindedly let a finger touch the center of the scar on her cheek. She traced the downward line, until she hit her shirt.

“This wound?”

IT WAS NOT THE ONLY ONE.

“What else was there?” she asked.

YOUR DREAMS WERE SCARRED.

YOUR MIND TORN TO PIECES.

I TOOK THE SCATTERED SHARDS AND PUT THEM BACK TOGETHER.

UNTIL I FELT WHOLE AND THAT ENOUGH OF US WAS UNIFIED.

“You were… healing me?” Hydrangea shook her head. “But… why didn’t you tell me? Give me any warning? Do it in places where I wouldn’t fall and collapse?”

I WAS THOUGHTLESS ONCE.

I HAD NO DESIRE BUT TO BE WHOLE.

FOR MANY YEARS I WAS LIKE THIS AS I GATHERED THE PIECES.

IT WAS NOT UNTIL I COULD BEGIN TO THINK THAT I REALIZED WHAT I HAD DONE.

BY THEN A PATTERN HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED AND SO I DECIDED TO GIVE YOU GIFTS INSTEAD.

Hydrangea frowned.

“Gifts?”

SCRAPS OF KNOWLEDGE THAT I HAD FOUND.

ANYTHING WHICH DRIFTED PAST I CAUGHT AND USED TO FILL THE GAPS WHERE NO SHARDS COULD BE FOUND.

Hydrangea flinched as if she had been struck. She felt _nauseous_. And she hadn’t known that word at first, even as she’d gone through books, searching for knowledge. It had come to her, just like so many other things.

How much of that knowledge, that intelligence which she had been so proud of, had even been _her_? How much of it had been _gifts_ of knowledge, from this otherworldly being which was settled on her ceiling?

How much of her was really _her_ , even?

The leaves were shifting again, more frantically this time. The letters, in turn, were more ragged, less refined.

THINK OF IT AS WRITING ON BLACKBOARD.

YOU ARE STILL YOURSELF JUST WITH ADDITIONAL PIECES OF INFORMATION AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

“That’s…” Hydrangea sighed. She wasn’t exactly reassured. She didn’t trust the creature either – it could probably lie if it wanted to. She’d seen nothing to suggest that it couldn’t. And knowing that it might have been feeding her information, possibly influencing her thoughts, all these years? She wasn’t happy, not in the slightest. Nor was she satisfied with its explanations. But they did, unfortunately, make some degree of sense, and so she was forced to consider that perhaps the living piece of ivy had indeed fed her random bits of trivia all her life, as it had mended scars both mental and physical.

And how many times had those pieces of knowledge helped her? There was no way that she could know for sure. No way to verify what she had learnt on her own and what had been gifted to her by the _other_ self, the writhing plant which twisted against her ceiling. But when she stopped to think, there were too many scenes. Too many possibilities, too many places where the answer wasn’t yes or no, but _maybe_.

Every moment she’d put up her hand in class and found out that she was right. Every time she’d stood up to a bully who’d made fun of her for her scar. When Professor Dumbledore had come to her house a few weeks ago, and she’d fought him with her words until he’d come out on top.

It would be so much easier if she didn’t owe anything to the literal _plant_ in her brain.

“How long have you been doing this?” she asked. “Grafting information onto me, sending me words and places.”

PERHAPS TWO OR THREE YEARS.

I AM NOT CERTAIN.

So, not her entire life. Just… just the latter half or third of it. Not as bad as she had expected. She decided to press further.

“And how much do you think those thoughts… influenced me? Or had me doing different actions than what I initially would have wanted?”

The response was almost immediate.

THROUGHOUT EVERYTHING YOU HAVE DONE.

“What?” Hydrangea said. “Everything?”

A THOUGHT WAS INTRODUCED INTO YOUR BRAIN THROUGH A PERIOD OF PAIN INDUCED BY ME ATTEMPTING TO FIX A RIFT IN YOUR MIND.

I GRAFTED THE MATERIAL OF THE THOUGHT AND ALLOWED IT TO MELD ITSELF INTO YOUR MIND.

I VERY MUCH DOUBT THE EXPERIENCE DID NOT AFFECT YOU OR YOUR ACTIONS THEREAFTER.

“Well aren’t _you_ nice?” she muttered.

NOT NICE.

I DO WHAT MUST BE DONE.

YOU ARE STILL YOURSELF HYDRANGEA POTTER.

I DID NOT CHANGE THIS.

“I don’t even know who Hydrangea Potter _is_ ,” she said. “I don’t know how many of the decisions I’ve made have been because someone slapped a piece of knowledge onto my brain. I don’t even know how much of myself, my _personality_ , is because it’s who _I_ am, or because I was given knowledge that any seven-year-old should have.”

SIMPLE.

YOU AND YOU ALONE ARE HYDRANGEA POTTER AND THIS SHALL REMAIN SO EVERMORE.

WHAT I HAVE DONE IS GRANT YOU KNOWLEDGE.

ALL YOUR LOGIC ALL YOUR REASONING IT IS YOURS AND WILL ALWAYS BE SO.

IT IS UNTOUCHED UNTAINTED AND YOURS ALONE.

“And how do I trust your words?” she asked.

The ivy shifted into a smile, before rearranging itself into three words.

BELIEVE IN YOURSELF.

_I suppose so_ , she thought. _What else can I do?_

Hydrangea jolted as she noticed the mass of shifting ivy dropping down onto the carpeted floor and beginning the long crawl back to her bed.

“Nothing else to say?” she asked. The ivy paused in its stride to give her a quick message.

NOT TONIGHT.

Hydrangea nodded.

“Alright then. Um… goodnight.”

GOODNIGHT.

Hydrangea lay back down, frowning as she shifted her head into position. She saw, but did not feel the mass of ivy crawl up her chest and near her throat. She closed her eyes, opening her mouth wide. The tendrils crept in, and in a moment, she felt it back within her chest. Waiting to reemerge at the right time.

⚘

**July 31 st**

Light had only just began to peek through the crack in the curtains, but Hydrangea had been awake long before. Shoulder against the mattress, eyes fixated on the wall. Or rather, the message which had been left for her, drawn in black marker on a small whiteboard.

IT WILL BE A GOOD DAY.

It seemed that Ives had developed a sense of humor. As good a sense of humor as a sentient being presenting as a pile of devil’s ivy could carry anyway.

Because as much as she would have liked to take the statement at face value, she knew Ives, and Ives knew her. In about a thousand different ways, Ives _was_ her. And Ives would very well know how she would interpret that message.

_God, Ives. You and your sarcasm._

Hydrangea wasn’t exactly _annoyed_ about it. It was even possible that the message was genuine, and that Ives had phrased it that way specifically because she’d known that it would tick Hydrangea off. It was something which she seemed to delight in, and besides this was the first birthday they’d be spending together.

Oh, and then there was that. Her birthday.

Most people seemed to think of their birthdays as a _good_ day. A day to have fun, spend time with family, to receive gifts. Like Ives seemed to want today to be. And sure, she still received gifts. She spent time with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and Dudley, and maybe if the weather was good. they’d go someplace nice. Hydrangea enjoyed her birthdays, there was no arguing that. But every time she began to feel something happy, something positive, she found herself reminded that there should have been two others present on these days.

It was hard to see her birthdays in a good light when that was the case.

But well, this year would be different. Ives would be there, for one. And at least this time… Yeah, scratch that. Knowing that magic existed didn’t make it any better. If anything, it made it worse. Because her parents hadn’t just died – someone had killed them, deliberately. Because they had stood in the way when the Dark Lord Voldemort had arrived at their door, seeking her.

_He took them away from me._

_He took **that** away from me._

She didn’t remember Voldemort, courtesy of Ives and her fiddling with Hydrangea’s shattered mind. Dumbledore hadn’t told her the name either – although he had been gracious enough to leave her history books with his name inside, instead of the usual He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named stuff which everyone else seemed to default to. Ives had told her about how the memories had been when she’d first come across them. She’d told her of a flash of green light, the feeling of her entire body exploding, and yet surviving, nonetheless.

Hydrangea had never been so glad to be stripped of a memory.

Ives had planted her roots deep into her mind, at the very seed of the errors. The vivid nightmares she no longer remembered, where the cloudy sky had been broken through by blinding green lightning, as blood had rained down upon Hydrangea and the corpses of her parents, both lying face down.

Ives had asked her if she’d wanted to view the memory, but Hydrangea had declined without a second thought. She knew what had been taken from her – she didn’t need to be reminded of it every single night.

Hydrangea was heading down the stairs five minutes later, when Ives had still failed to show by seven. She’d slipped out of her room in the middle of the night, and although it wasn’t rare for her to leave, she usually came back. That she hadn’t yet was… not necessarily concerning, but enough to justify being on edge.

When she reached the middle of the stairs, Ives slithered out from beneath one of the steps, wrapping around her leg and scooching up to her waist. Hydrangea smiled, even though she still couldn’t feel Ives physically. Knowing that the contact was there was enough.

“You didn’t show this morning,” she said. Ives stretched out onto her arm, before forming herself into a series of letters.

I TRIED TO FIND YOUR PRESENTS.

“You shouldn’t have,” Hydrangea said, only half serious. Ives, obviously sensing the humor into her tone, began to reform again.

I DID NOT FIND ANY.

“What a pity.” Hydrangea smiled. “Guess I’ll be surprised then. You looked everywhere?”

BEDROOMS KITCHEN CUPBOARD UNDER THE STAIRS LIVING ROOM.

NOTHING AT ALL.

“Curious.” She reached the bottom of the stairs, skipping into the living room. “Curious indeed.” Hydrangea smiled when she saw Uncle Vernon at the stove, apparently trying his hand at making breakfast.

“Good morning, Uncle Vernon,” she said. The man jolted up as if he’d been woken from a deep slumber, before his eyes settled on Hydrangea.

“Ah, Hydrangea – happy birthday, dear.”

“Thank you.” Hydrangea’s eyes scanned the living room but found that no one else was there yet. “Aunt Petunia not up yet?”

“Oh, no. She’s awake, she’s outside tending to the… eh. The flowers.”

“The flowers, huh?” Hydrangea glanced down to her arm, where Ives had reformed into yet another message.

I DID NOT CHECK OUTSIDE.

“Uncle Vernon, you didn’t get me another plant, did you?” she asked as innocently as she could. Which wasn’t exactly a very convincing display of falsified emotion, with how much she was smiling. She really needed to work on that.

“Would that… would that be a problem if we did?” he asked, completely taking his attention off the food.

“Don’t burn those pancakes,” she cautioned, inciting a string of suitably mild curses from her uncle before he started flipping them over. “But, uh. No, not at all. I was hoping it would be, actually.”

“Thank goodness,” he said tiredly. Hydrangea smirked at him, receiving a confused look before it seemed to dawn upon him.

“Thanks for the confirmation,” she said cheerily. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Aunt Petunia that you totally spoiled the surprise.”

“It was—” he started, before apparently giving up. “Never mind. Um. Just… just, maybe try and act surprised?”

“Just because I know it’s a plant doesn’t mean I know what it _is_ ,” Hydrangea said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll put on my best shocked expression.”

“Not to insult you, but your ‘shocked expression’ is more exaggerated than Dudley’s worst tantrums.” Hydrangea gasped in mock horror, putting her hands over her heart.

“You wound me with your words, dear uncle,” she said dramatically, before cracking a grin. “Alright. Should I go see her outside?”

“She’ll kill me if she finds out you already know,” Uncle Vernon said in what seemed to be part amusement and part genuine horror.

“I’m sure she’s already prepared for that inevitability,” she said with utter confidence. “I doubt her reaction will be so extreme.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

“If you insist.” She waved to him as she passed out the back door. “Bye, Uncle Vernon. Wish me luck!”

“Luck indeed,” he snorted moments before the door slammed shut behind her.

Ives sprouted up until Hydrangea could see her at eye level and began forming into a new series of words.

THAT WAS MEAN.

“Hush, you,” she muttered. “It’s _Uncle Vernon_.”

Ives didn’t change her form.

Hydrangea rolled her eyes with a sigh.

“I’ll… I’ll apologize later,” she promised. “C’mon, I want to see Aunt Petunia, don’t you?” Ives formed a small bud at her peak, then made two leaves on either side shrug up and down.

“When did you become so indecisive?” Another shrug, this time more exaggerated. Hydrangea flicked at Ives, feeling nothing as she made contact but still satisfied when she was treated to the side of the bulb swinging on its hinge to hang downwards from her wrist. Two more buds sprouted from her wrist, one of them imitating the shaking of a fist. Hydrangea flicked the fist and watched it rock back.

“Drama queen,” she muttered as Ives curled into a ball in her wrist.

She’d begun conserving her mass, compressing herself into smaller sizes so that she could fit into smaller spaces accordingly. Before, Ives had been restricted to her words, the shifting mass, or the scuttling spider form. A month of her regularly coming out had resulted in nights of experimentation, where she had begun to experiment with growth, compression, various forms. It wasn’t of much importance, considering that all Ives really had to do to get into anywhere was flatten herself sufficiently until she could slip through a crack. It was more complex when magic was involved – Dumbledore had noticed her straight away on one of his visits, but Muggles didn’t seem to notice anything at all. After all, if even Hydrangea couldn’t feel their physical contact, then why would non-magical people?

She wondered, briefly, if calling someone a Muggle was racist, before she came upon Aunt Petunia in the garden, staring intently at a potted plant. Hydrangea paused as she noticed the leaves tumbling out of the pot and draping to the ground, as Aunt Petunia desperately tried to collect it all together, her hands protected with gardening gloves.

“Devil’s ivy,” Hydrangea muttered.

_That can’t be a coincidence._

She looked down to Ives, and only found affirmation.

PERHAPS DUMBLEDORE WAS INVOLVED.

“Perhaps,” she said. The old man had showed a love of meddling in other peoples’ business – telling Aunt Petunia what to get her as a birthday gift was hardly the furthest that he’d gone.

And yet, at the same time, Dumbledore being involved was highly doubtful at best. The man was trying his best not to do anything which might possibly aggravate her. How had he put it? Ah, yes. He believed he’d be _inviting future resentment_. Real classy way of saying that he thought their relationship would be beneficial for him later, and that he didn’t want to lose any opportunities.

This probably wasn’t the kind of thing he would have encouraged if he’d known it was going to happen.

“Hey, Aunt Petunia,” she said. Her aunt spun around, almost knocking over the plant on the table before her eyes settled on Hydrangea.

“Oh, it’s just you,” she said, sounding relieved.

“Who else would it be?” Ives waved around in front of her, but Aunt Petunia wouldn’t be able to see her. No matter. There were other things to deal with. Hydrangea motioned towards the pot. “Devil’s ivy?”

“Well, first of all, happy birthday, Hydrangea.” Hydrangea smiled and nodded, murmuring a ‘thank you’ back to her. “And well, I was told that these were good plants for beginners. Of course, they’re apparently able to irritate the skin if you don’t wear gloves, but I haven’t had any problems, as I’ve had some on the whole time.”

“Huh. Any other particular reason?” Aunt Petunia frowned, looking a little worried. Hydrangea rushed to reassure her, “oh no, don’t worry. I love it. I’m just… just curious.”

“Is this… magic related?” Aunt Petunia tried. Hydrangea shrugged.

“Has Professor Dumbledore spoken to you recently?” she asked, indirectly answering the question.

“Not in a while, no.” Aunt Petunia looked back at the plant. “Why? Is something the matter?”

“Not really.” Hydrangea shook her head. “It isn’t a concern, just an odd coincidence. Probably in my favor though.”

She turned and spread out her arms for a hug. Aunt Petunia looked conflicted, but slowly began to lean forward. Hydrangea rolled her eyes, before darting forward and enveloping her aunt in a hug. Aunt Petunia stumbled a bit, before letting out a laugh.

“Thank you,” she said, resting the side of her head on her aunt’s chest. “For everything.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Hydrangea could hear her aunt’s smile in her voice. “You’re pretty great too, you know.”

“I know. I’m amazing,” Hydrangea said, grinning as she broke the hug. She pointed at the sky with one hand, the other on her hip. “I’m super incredible and everything.”

“Oh, shut it.” Aunt Petunia clapped a hand on her shoulder. “You want to head back inside?” Hydrangea eyed the plant, and noticed Ives seemingly measuring herself up against it. She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yeah, sure. Just… just let me put her in my room.” Aunt Petunia smiled.

“Her?” Hydrangea looked back at Ives, realizing her mistake.

“Slip of the tongue, don’t worry about it,” she said. She shot a pointed glare at Ives, who had reformed into a string of letters.

HAHAHAHAHA.

“Thanks again.” She grabbed the pot and took it back through the kitchen, where Uncle Vernon was still working on his pancakes.

“You like it?”

“It’s big,” she replied, intentionally vague.

“So you do.”

“Of course I do. When have I _not_ liked something you guys have given me?” she asked. She walked around the stove to give him a quick hug. “Thank you.”

“It was our pleasure. You, uh, putting that somewhere?”

“My room,” she said. “So I can keep an eye on it better. Besides, devil’s ivy stays green even in the dark.”

“Your… your room isn’t dark,” he said, confused.

“No, I meant…” she shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Sure. Could you wake up Dudley while you’re up there? He’s, uh…” Uncle Vernon waggled his hand. Hydrangea smiled.

“You can just say he’s still asleep.”

“That. Yes.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll grab him on the way.”

She headed upstairs, with Ives curling up in the pot next to the other devil’s ivy. Hydrangea rolled her eyes as she saw Ives form multiple buds which stared at the other plant.

“You’re not getting jealous of the non-sentient plant, are you?” When Ives didn’t answer, she slightly tipped the pot so that Ives began to slip off the side. The bottom she realized what Hydrangea was doing, Ives wrapped herself around the bottom of the pot, eliminating any chance of her falling off.

“Not my fault that you’re jealous of it.” Hydrangea opened the door to her room, noting that the sun was lined up almost directly with the window, at least horizontally. It was way too high to call it properly aligned, by now.

Hydrangea placed the pot on the windowsill, watching the leaves tumble down at the impact. She sighed, rearranging the drooping vines and laying them across the windowsill so that they didn’t touch the floor. Ives travelled up her arm, poking at the plant but achieving nothing. Yeah, that was the problem with being immaterial. Most of the time, the world just wouldn’t let you get your way.

“Well, you said it,” Hydrangea muttered. “It will be a good day.” Ives waved about in the air in silent affirmation. She smiled, poking her in her middle. “C’mon. We’ve gotta wake up Dudley.”

She left the pot of devil’s ivy behind on the windowsill, as the sun cast shadows of tentacles marked by a thousand hands, spikes and barbs, stretching over her bedroom floor.

⚘

Aunt Petunia had been called into the office, for _something_. An emergency of some sort, she’d said, once she’d put down the phone. No amount of begging had gotten her to back down.

And so the night had ended with a tired Uncle Vernon working in his room, as Hydrangea had taken care of the dishes and Dudley had returned upstairs, already half asleep.

Ives had looked on as she’d gone about her task, setting them all aside in a stack before rinsing them all at once. She’d bathed in the stream of water, though it had passed right through her and only showed any hint of stopping once it had hit the plates. Ives had formed into words after that, enough to lift Hydrangea from her dour mood.

THAT WAS FUN.

“Fun, huh?” She adjusted the tap, then turned on the water at full blast. Ives darted away from the water, pressing herself up against the side of the sink. Hydrangea smirked as Ives darted away from the stream of water, before slithering under the plates.

Something clattered upstairs.

Hydrangea perked her head up as she heard someone thumping down the stairs, the intervals between the sounds largely erratic. She switched off the tap, hearing someone’s heavy breathing.

“Uncle Vernon?” she called. The man stumbled around the corner, his face red, hands in fists. When she looked at his expression, she saw only hurt.

“What…” she swallowed. “What happened?”

“Hydrangea.” He stopped, as if trying to find words. “There’s, um…” He shook his head, took a deep breath. “Petunia was… there was an accident.”

For the first time in months, Hydrangea felt the creatures in her stomach stirring once more. She stumbled back. Sending a pot clattering to the floor.

“No,” she whispered.

“Hydrangea—”

“No,” she repeated. She tried to grab for something to steady herself, but only found Ives, curled around her hand. She stared at her, watched her begin to spin into words.

Her vision grew hazy.

“Hydrangea, can you hear me?”

She was so far away. She saw darkness, then light, then the headlights of a car, shooting forwards. Knocking into something, just barely. Streaming past, as the other vehicle went spinning. The side smashed into a lamp post, hood flinging open. Glass shattered, metal tore against metal, and a woman’s face smashed against the steering wheel, forehead cracked and bloodied.

“Hydrangea!”

Uncle Vernon was shaking her, screaming her name. She reached out, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He hugged her back, worried as he was, and she screamed into his shoulder. She screamed and she wept as she saw it again and again, the woman, her head leaking blood as the other car stole away into the night, leaving her behind.

Uncle Vernon hugged her back, as tightly as ever, and yet, when Hydrangea screamed, she only felt the numbness and the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification:  
> Ives is the devil's ivy creature which serves as the embodiment of Hydrangea's magic. During the timeskip, which contained much information which I thought unnecessary, Hydrangea would have spent a lot of time with Ives, eventually naming her as such after some time. This should be derivable from the chapter itself, but I want to make it clear just in case.


	6. Seed 0.5 - Devil's Snare

She slept in Uncle Vernon’s room that night. Dudley too, when they’d found out that he’d been awoken by the screams. When they’d told him the news, he’d cried and wept, as he lay down on his bed, as Hydrangea had tried her best to console him but horribly failed.

They’d cried together, in the end.

Uncle Vernon had been wanting to send them back to their rooms, but they’d both known that it would only result in nightmares. And so the three of them had all been crammed together in Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s bed, staying together even as Hydrangea had cried and Dudley had kicked and Uncle Vernon had begun to snore, because it was peace and in that moment, peace was all they needed.

But peace left the morning after, and it was to Ives, walking along the ceiling, that Hydrangea awoke to. Ives, swinging by vines and tendrils burrowing into the white plaster and looming above her, blooming flowers as eyes.

She reached out, and Ives dropped, curling around her arm.

_It’s another day, now._

She was the only one in bed, and judging by the position of the sun, that wasn’t because either of the others had gotten up particularly early.

Hydrangea didn’t usually sleep in.

It seemed like it would just be one of those days.

“How long have they been gone?” she asked.

AN HOUR OR TWO.

“Not too long.” She looked at the plant curling around her wrist, and found herself frustrated at the lack of feeling. Frustrated she could see Ives, hear her, touch her, and yet not feel her. Because Ives was her, and she was Ives, and any barrier between them was a barrier within herself.

WE WILL FIND A WAY.

“Yeah.” Hydrangea patted Ives lightly along her wrist, before pulling the blankets off of her. “Big day today, huh?”

She thought of Aunt Petunia with her head on the steering wheel, blood dripping from her head, the other driver fleeing. Her hands tightened into fists.

_Coward._

CALM.

Ives hung over her head, additional vines reinforcing the letters.

“A little late for that, isn’t it?”

IS IT?

Hydrangea shrugged.

“Is it weird that I… I don’t even feel sad anymore?” she asked.

I KNOW HOW YOU FEEL.

“Yeah. You would huh.”

_Numb_. That was the word. She had watched the two cars colliding a thousand times. Heard the sound of glass shattering against glass, of metal sliding and skidding sending sparks and debris flying. The sound of blood, as it travelled down pale skin and splattered onto the dashboard.

What else was there to say, when the scene had replayed in her head to the point that she had memorized every detail, each individual clink against the road as the shower of glass had bounced and broke and scattered?

There wasn’t sadness. There was only numbness, and the hollow emptiness which came with it.

Hydrangea’s finger went to her eye, travelling along the narrow river of skin and flesh, terribly rough and simultaneously smooth in texture. Her finger went to the side, then down, down, hitting the interweaving hub where all the rivers met. Then she took the downward path, and when she hit her shirt, this time she did not stop. She angled her elbow upwards, tracing her finger along the path until it veered off, slicing a straight line underneath her collarbone.

“Hey, Ives?” she said. The mass of vines perked up, alert. Hydrangea considered what she wanted to ask her, as Ives began to twist into a single word.

YES?

_It’s a risk_ , she thought. _But there are always risks, aren’t there?_

“What you said, about when you were fixing me? The information – how were you getting it?” Ives shifted, a full paragraph of words encircled by leaves and circles of green appearing in the place of the singular word.

EACH PIECE OF INFORMATION I FOUND WAS NOT MERELY INFORMATION.

EVERY ONE OF THOSE WORDS AND PHRASES AND CUSTOMS WHICH I GLEAMED WERE MEMORIES.

MEMORIES POWERFUL ENOUGH TO LEAVE LASTING IMPRESSIONS ON THE WORLD ITSELF.

MAJOR MOMENTS IN A PERSON’S LIFE

A MAN’S FINAL WORDS TO HIS FAMILY.

A PHRASE OR PASSAGE DRILLED INNTO SOMEONE’S HEAD, MEMORIZED BY ROTE.

IF IT WAS THERE AND WE PASSED THROUGH, I COULD ATTAIN SOME OF IT, SNATCH IT FROM THE AIR.

“Is it just phrases? Word?” she asked. “Is that the limit of it?”

I WOULD NOT KNOW.

THERE WAS NOT MUCH ROOM FOR EXPERIMENTATION.

I WAS FOCUSED ON MY TASK, I RARELY HAD TIME TO PONDER SUCH THINGS.

“Then how did it feel? When you were… snatching away parts of those memories? Was it a handful? Just a scrap? A page of writing?” Ives didn’t answer for some time – she seemed to be deliberating as the words began to unfurl, preparing for the next answer. And then, just as quickly as she had unraveled, Ives picked up momentum, and the words came together faster than ever before.

IT WAS AS IF I HAD ACQUIRED THE TINIEST SPECK OF DUST.

Hydrangea felt her heart pounding in her chest as she spoke again.

“And what if you stayed? If you were within close proximity of that memory, able to take as much time as you needed to absorb the whole thing?” Ives collapsed into a single word.

WHY?

Hydrangea bit her lip, allowed herself to relax until her beating heart no longer pounded against the walls of her body.

“Because someone hurt Aunt Petunia,” she said. “And they escaped the consequences.” Ives moved again, swiftly, fluidly.

IS THIS FOR JUSTICE, THEN?

Hydrangea opened her mouth to answer, but when she did, no words came. None which would make sense. It didn’t matter that Ives was _her_ in every way that mattered. It… it barely made sense in her own head. And yet they felt so right.

_This is about someone hurting her. This is about me at home, unable to help. The other driver continuing down the road like nothing happened. This is about how she shouldn’t have even been out that night, and that when she went to work to help with an emergency, she’s repaid with brain damage and too many broken bones._

Hydrangea looked at Ives, saw the twists and the turns.

_Are you seeing what I’m thinking?_

No response. Just the question, standing before her.

IS THIS FOR JUSTICE, THEN?

She answered in the only way she knew.

“I don’t know,” she said, and it was the truth.

Ives unraveled, and there was just the one word.

OKAY.

Ives collapsed into a writhing pile of vines, then began to move for the window. Hydrangea frowned, sitting up to go after her, but Ives was already folding into another message.

I WILL HEAD TO THE CRASH SITE.

Hydrangea gripped the bed, as Ives continued to slither out the window.

“Stay safe,” she said. Ives turned for just a moment, a group of vines interweaving into a singular mass, which bobbed up and down before the plant spilled out the other side of the window.

Hydrangea stared at the place where Ives had just been, emotions coursing through her which she had never felt before. She looked at the door to Uncle Vernon’s room, open just a crack. No noise from downstairs.

She headed down, and found the two of them sitting in silence, Uncle Vernon’s cooking set out on the table. A plate for her, but that was probably cold by now.

“You didn’t come and get me,” she said, and was surprised when Dudley was the one who acknowledged her instead of Uncle Vernon.

“Forgot,” he muttered. “Sorry.” Hydrangea looked from him to Uncle Vernon, at the dark circles under their eyes. She hadn’t looked herself in the mirror this morning before she’d come downstairs.

_It sucks for all of us._

“That’s alright,” she said, sitting down next to him. Uncle Vernon grunted in greeting, and Hydrangea nodded back. She didn’t bother asking if they’d slept well. She picked up the spoon and fork, silently shoving the food into her mouth as Uncle Vernon opened his mouth, paused, and then spoke anyway.

“There’s, uh,” he began, then sneezed. “Uh, visiting hours, today and tomorrow.” Hydrangea’s eyes flicked between him and Dudley, who was staring at his empty plate with an equally empty gaze.

“When?” she asked. “Soon? The afternoon? Later?”

“Never too late. They, uh, don’t let you stay very late at all. But… they’re open in another twenty minutes. If you want to go and see—”

“Yes. Please,” she added. “I… yeah, I’d like that.”

“Told you she’d say yes,” Dudley muttered. Uncle Vernon frowned.

“I—”

“You thought I’d say no?” Hydrangea said, somewhat surprised by the idea. Uncle Vernon fumbled, sputtering for a few seconds before composing himself.

“I wasn’t entirely certain,” he said. “I know that it was, um… Especially hard for you.” That was… _some_ way of saying _I know you had to relive the experience over and over_.

“It was hard for all of us,” she said quietly. “You…”

_You should have known that._

Had he not figured it out last night, when they had wept and sobbed together, huddling together for comfort, desperate in their anguish? When she had screamed and he had embraced her, but when they had gone to find Dudley and he had screamed louder?

Hydrangea pinched herself under the table.

_That’s unfair to him. All of us are worried._

She looked to the two, who looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks. Incredible, what a single night could do to the human body.

“Are we going soon, then?” she asked. Uncle Vernon sighed.

“After you finish eating,” he said. “But not before. And we’re doing the dishes before we go.” Hydrangea was tempted to shoot him a glare, but all that would do was escalate the situation when the situation hadn’t even been _created_. She sighed, folding, sitting back in her chair.

“Fine,” she said, injecting as much bitterness into the word as she could without possibly hurting Uncle Vernon legitimately. As it was, he seemed to brush it off, rolling his eyes before motioning back towards the plate. Hydrangea shoved more food into her mouth, then looked at Dudley, who was still staring at the plate.

“Dudley,” Uncle Vernon said. “Would you deal with the dishes?” Dudley didn’t respond. Hydrangea poked him, and he perked up instantly.

“What?” he said, then noticed his father’s stare. “What is it?”

“I asked—” Uncle Vernon started, then shook his head. “Never mind. Just… get changed? Hydrangea—”

“I’ll eat faster,” she mumbled before more food was shoveled into her mouth. Uncle Vernon shook his head.

“That wasn’t what I… Oh, heavens. Take your time. Please.”

For a moment, Hydrangea wondered if he knew what he’d just told her to do. To… to take her time was to _waste_ time, time which could be spent seeing Aunt Petunia at the hospital.

But no, that was unfair too.

_He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just as worried as you and Dudley are._

When Hydrangea looked back at Dudley, he was gone from his seat. He was… surprisingly stealthy, even if that was usually by accident.

Hydrangea swallowed the last of her food, then carried her plate and cutlery up to the sink where Uncle Vernon was.

“Fast enough?” she asked. Her uncle grimaced.

“I…” he shook his head. “Sure. Just… five minutes?”

“Sure,” she said, and zipped up the stairs so fast that she wasn’t sure how she hadn’t tripped. Her bed was still made, and she felt a pang of _something_ when she saw that. She hadn’t made that bed. Not in the morning.

_Aunt Petunia must have done that._

She closed the door behind her and opened her closet. She sifted through the variously colored tees and shorts, before selecting a gray shirt with the pink outline of a cartoon dog on it, and a pair of black shorts.

She changed quickly, aware of the time limit Uncle Vernon had set into place for her. Even though she knew that she would be done in less than three minutes.

When she headed downstairs again, Dudley and Uncle Vernon were already waiting. The procession to the car was silent, but for their footsteps as they trudged to their transportation. When they were all in, Uncle Vernon turned the key, and the car backed out onto the road. Hydrangea glimpsed Melanie’s house, just a moment before Uncle Vernon started down the road. She focused her gaze on the road ahead, as Dudley gazed absentmindedly out the window.

_Wow. He’s really drifting._

Not that she could blame him. Ignoring what was ahead was easier than dwelling on the problem. And there were a lot of those.

_That this shouldn’t have happened._

_That the other driver got away, though Ives is working on that._

_That Dumbledore hasn’t checked in, and I don’t know how to contact him._

Surely he, if anyone, could get Aunt Petunia back in shape in just a few moments. Well, perhaps not _that_ fast, but he was an experienced wizard. Apparently the most powerful in the country, depending on which books you read. Dumbledore’s notable feats were almost all of combat. Famous battles, taking down a dangerous foe. His participation in the war. But there was his research, too. The contributions he’d made to the various fields of magic were just as impressive as how he’d taken down Grindelwald, if not more. To Hydrangea, at least, those things mattered more.

The man was a veritable genius, so it was a pretty fair assumption that he would be capable of healing her aunt. But apparently, he wasn’t aware of her accident. And she had no idea how to _tell_ him about it. She knew that Aunt Petunia had a way to contact him, and that it probably involved that bowl of powder she kept hidden near the fireplace, but, well, even if she got the powder, she had no clue what to _do_ with it. Her reading hadn’t been _that_ extensive, after all. Methods of communication mentioned in her books consisted of letters delivered by owls, and various enchanted items.

So, essentially, there was practically nothing she could do about it but wait for Dumbledore to show up again. And that wouldn’t be for another week or so.

God, if she could do _anything_ which might have helped her aunt, she would have. But what was there? Ives was out gathering information. Dumbledore wouldn’t be swinging by for a while. She was going to visit Aunt Petunia right now, but… what would that do, in the end?

_I hate being so helpless._

If she told Uncle Vernon about this, he’d probably tell her that she shouldn’t burden herself with all of this. She was only eight, after all. She was young. She shouldn’t have to deal with this.

She probably would have believed him, if an old man hadn’t appeared in her house one night and told her about how she was probably going to get hunted by remnants of a long dead enemy army.

_Goddammit Professor Dumbledore. I wish I’d never met you, and yet my life wouldn’t feel right if you hadn’t shown up that night._

_This is what magic does to us._

It had been a car which had caused Aunt Petunia’s accident. An accident which had only occurred because Petunia had needed to help with an emergency at a job which she had only gotten because she’d known that she would have to provide for two children in the future, not just Dudley.

Hydrangea’s nails dug into her skin, but she didn’t pull them across. She pressed, and she felt them sinking deeper into the flesh. She stopped short of where they would leave marks for some time. She knew the point well.

Her fault, sort of, in a cosmic sense. Except none of them could have known, could they? None of them could have seen it coming. Aunt Petunia hadn’t seen that car. Uncle Vernon hadn’t seen the accident. But Hydrangea had seen it all. The contact, the crash, the glass and blood and broken metal.

Blaming herself for an accident none of them could have predicted was stupid. But when she traced it back, she’d only been with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon for one reason. Because a dark wizard had killed her parents, and Dumbledore hadn’t had anyone else to turn to. Not anyone who was family. There were good things which had come out of it, she supposed, as terrible as that sounded. The Dursley’s might have just been her aunt and uncle, but Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had treated her like she was their own child. If Aunt Petunia hadn’t taken her in, would she ever have forgiven her sister? Probably not.

But maybe she could have had that life still, with her parents. Maybe she wouldn’t have been forced to take up magic out of fear, maybe it would have been a choice, willfully and eagerly made. Perhaps she would have found a way to bring her mother and her aunt together, and everything would have been wonderful.

But she wouldn’t have had Ives.

_And besides_ , she thought, _I’m getting too caught up on the maybes._

But there was a single truth to this. Magic had killed her parents. Magic had seen her in the hands of the Dursleys. Magic had seen Aunt Petunia getting a job, Hydrangea collapsing, Dumbledore visiting her home. And magic hadn’t been enough, when Aunt Petunia was hit.

She knew that it was unfair, that it was irrational. That thinking this was wouldn’t help anyone, least of all her. Because magic was necessary, and as much as she tried to hate it, it was fun, and awesome, and incredible in so many ways. And it was destructive, terrible, capable of inflicting pain and terrible emotions and creating great acts of violence. Of breeding heroes and monsters in a terrible war which still continued by the way of words and the quill, and debates continuing through books and histories published about the great feats of either side.

All by a community of people who were powerful enough to change the world for the better but spent most of their time just fighting amongst themselves with false perceptions about their levels of superiority. Because that was all the reasoning that madman needed. The fool, whispering in his ear, telling him that he was better, that he was superior, that he was better than everyone.

And where had that gotten them?

If the histories were to be believed, absolutely nowhere.

The wizarding world was secretive, yes, but they were also apparently so far behind on technology that they still used candles when it got dark. The wizards weren’t exactly hopeless, but reading their history had not instilled in her much trust in them.

Although, if she was going to go to Hogwarts when she turned eleven…

_I’m just insulting myself, aren’t I?_

Hydrangea shook her head, just as she felt the car come to a halt. She looked at Dudley who was looking to the front of the car in confusion. Uncle Vernon jerked his head.

“We’re here,” he said. Hydrangea looked up at the towering building. She let out a small sigh.

“Let’s go see her,” she said.

⚘

The first thing she took notice of was the bandages. The sheer amount of them, wrapped around her head, her arms, her legs. One of them was suspended in the air, kept hanging with a grey strap. Aunt Petunia’s face had been left uncovered, up until her forehead. She looked peaceful in a way which Hydrangea was honestly surprised by, like she was just in a really deep sleep.

Maybe she was.

Dudley was the first to rush up to his mother, but he stopped short of actually touching her. All of them recognized the fragility. The danger.

_Don’t want to cause more damage than what’s already there._

Hydrangea looked to the bandages on her aunt’s forehead. Pristine, white. Not a hint of blood anywhere. And wasn’t _that_ deceptive?

Dudley was by her side, whispering into her ear. Aunt Petunia wasn’t visibly responding, but unconscious people didn’t tend to do that.

“Leave him be,” Uncle Vernon said quietly. “Give him a little time.”

“I know. I wasn’t planning to.” He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re such an understanding girl.” She could hear the smile in his voice. The pride.

_No_ , she thought. _Not understanding. Just really patient._

She nodded.

Dudley was still whispering into her ear. The whispers were getting louder, but Hydrangea was already beginning to tune them out.

“Do you think you could last another five minutes?” Uncle Vernon asked. Hydrangea shook her head.

“Let Dudley have today,” she said. “I’m alright with that. I can talk to her tomorrow.” She only had so much to say, after all. She looked back at the bandages on her forehead, and for a moment there was a splash of crimson, slowly spreading from the center of that place where she knew she’d been bleeding before. Then white again.

_Just a trick of the light. That’s what I would have told myself, before I met Dumbledore._

_Or maybe I’m just crazy._

She took a step back, and Uncle Vernon gave her a quick glance.

“I’ll… I’ll wait in the hallway,” she said hastily. She walked out without another word, Uncle Vernon following her for a few steps before it was only her footsteps echoing through the hall. Hydrangea reached up to her left eye and felt the stream of water which had been flowing this entire time. She felt her right eye, followed the trail. Every path, wet and salted by her tears. She looked down, saw the damp trail on her shirt leading to the opposite side of her collarbone.

She blinked away the tears, shook her head.

Not now. Not here.

Hydrangea closed her eyes, and for a moment she wished she hadn’t agreed to come.

⚘

She was back in her room again, tonight. Dudley had looked slightly happier, and Uncle Vernon had taken that as a sign that everyone would be alright to go back to their own rooms tonight.

Except that Hydrangea didn’t _feel_ fine, _hadn’t_ felt fine since she’d first seen her aunt’s head smash against the steering wheel.

Hydrangea shivered even though it was warm in her room. She pulled the blanket around herself, rolled over, to see if that would be better.

It didn’t fix her aching heart.

She hadn’t dared to tell Uncle Vernon how she was feeling. Not in the state he was in. Not when Dudley finally looked relieved, to some extent. She grabbed fistfuls of the mattress, and she screamed into her pillow.

The tears streamed down her cheeks like pair of relentless waterfalls, one falling into the pillow, dampening it. Making it cold and wet and gross. The other feeding a thousand hungry rivers etched into her flesh by a curse from a murderer. She screamed and cried and thrashed, and she knew that she would not be heard. Because the walls were thick, soundproofed. Because Uncle Vernon and Dudley had probably gone to sleep a while ago, their minds put to ease by assurances from the doctors that her aunt would be fine.

But what good was that? What good was that when her aunt shouldn’t have even been there in the first place? Because she’d taken that job, and she’d been hit and the other driver had stolen away into the night, escaping the consequences. Because she’d hit her head too hard and Hydrangea had watched the red spurt like a water spout, because she’d lost some of her teeth in the crash and when she’d breathed she’d been able to see the gaps, because everything was because of her and him and the magic and the car and the entire goddamn world was just so—

—Broken.

Just so broken.

Hydrangea shook, her breath ragged. Her thoughts plagued by a face behind a darkened pane of glass. She breathed in and out and in and out, and when she released the mattress, she felt everything—

Something cracked. Hydrangea turned her head towards the window, saw the sky and nothing in between it and her. The potted devil’s ivy that Aunt Petunia had gotten her for her birthday was absent.

She heard clinking. The sound of something dragging itself through shattered clay and thick carpet. Hydrangea didn’t move. She took a breath, and then another, and then she held. And waited.

Something touched the tip of her finger. She went stiff, and the thing that was touching her slithered along, until it reached her wrist. It wrapped around her arm, and something larger brushed against her skin. Hydrangea glanced down, and saw the vine wrapped around her arm, adorned with dark green leaves, trailing back down over the side of the bed. The vine, which she could _feel_. She let out a small gasp.

The vine gave her a squeeze.

“Ives?” she whispered softly. Silence.

A moment passed, and then the vine squeezed tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a doozy, but I hope you all enjoy. We're getting closer to the end of the introductory arc, and then we'll be getting into the meat of it all.
> 
> Hope you're all enjoying the story so far! Please let me know your thoughts. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, though I do appreciate suggestions to problems rather than just stating the issue and leaving it at that. Not that you should all feel obligated to, though. But if you have the time, I'm always trying to get better at writing, and criticism helps a lot. Usually.
> 
> Thanks anyways.


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